


Andɨpɨsɨ An’tsi

by keeptogethernow



Series: Talon!AU [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Harm to Children, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mistakes Are Made, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent-Child Relationship, Talon!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 57,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptogethernow/pseuds/keeptogethernow
Summary: Traumas can be survived, lives can be rebuilt, and wounds can heal. But when mistakes are made and a line is crossed, can the damage ever be undone?





	1. Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> Same AU, set about three-ish months after T'soape Mumbichi ended. You can do the math if you really care to.

It’s six the o’clock in the morning and Tim can’t find his shoes. He’s already looked everywhere in his room, as well as downstairs in the kitchen, and the living room, with no luck—though he _did_ find the iPod that Dick had lost about three months ago, six quarters, a tennis ball, and a very expensive watch that probably belonged to Bruce. He’d debated waking Bruce up, maybe using the watch as an excuse, to ask if maybe _he’d_ seen the shoes, but it’s a poor excuse at best, and Bruce was out ‘til well past three that morning, so he needs the rest a lot more than Tim needs the shoes. So he considered his options and decides that, because it’s a school day, Jason should be up by now, so he goes back upstairs and knocks on the door.

“Hey,” he calls out, shoving the door open. “Jason? Um, have you…” Tim trails off, looking more closely at his older brother, who’s sitting on the bed, half-dressed, hastily swiping at his face.

Jason sits up straight, scowling a little. “You’re supposed to wait for an answer before you just barge in.” There’s no real heat behind his voice.

“Sorry,” Tim says, edging back towards the door. The boy’s eyes dart from Jason to the floor and back again, like he’s trying very hard to not say anything antagonizing.

“It’s okay,” Jason sighs, not actually wanting to run the kid off. “What’d you want? And aren’t you supposed to be wearing a uniform?”

“Couldn’t find m’ shoes.”

“ _Or your pants,_ huh? Jeans aren’t gonna fly, y’know.”

Tim traces a pattern with his foot, not looking at Jason directly. “I don’t _like_ the stupid pants. Are…um, are you…okay?”

“Fine.” Jason snaps, jumping off the bed. “Just…lemme get my shi— _stuff,_ ” he amends quickly. Bruce has been on him about cleaning up his language. “Why’re you making that face?”

Tim’s eyes are narrowed and his lips are pursed slightly. His head is tilted slightly, like he’s hoping that the different angle will help make sense of things. He shrugs and doesn’t answer.

It takes less than twenty seconds Jason to give up on it. “Fine. I just…I miss my mom, okay? And since Bruce is pissed at me because of that patrol last week, I’ve just got a lot of time to think about it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So…look, just…don’t tell. I’m okay, so…”

“You’re going to do something stupid,” Tim says flatly, still squinting at him. “Aren’t you?”

Jason debates denying the plan he’s come up with, but he figures that out of everyone in his family, Tim’s least likely to actually stop him and also least likely to realize that there’s a problem with any of it.

“It’s not _stupid._ You remember when I asked for your help figuring out who and where my birth-mom might be?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m going to go find her.”

“Why?” Tim asks bluntly. But his face is more relaxed, so Jason thinks that he’s probably winning.

“Because…” Jason stops trying to find his jacket to try and word it right. “Look, I’m happy here, alright? But if there’s a chance that…that my, um, my mom is _out there, alive…_ I’ve just…I gotta know.”

Tim frowns. “You’re going to Africa.”

“Just for a few days,” Jason says hastily. “And you helped me do the research, so it should be good, right?”

“Um…”

“I just need you to not tell Bruce or Alfred _or Dick_ until I’ve gotten there, _at least._ ”

He doesn’t get an answer, so he stops talking and races to find the rest of his stuff. As soon as he finds his shoes, he heads towards the door, nudging Tim out of the way.

“C’mon,” he mutters, walking towards Tim’s room. “Do you even know where you might have left ‘em?”

“No…” Tim sighs, trotting after him. “I already looked in my room. And downstairs. And also the kitchen.”

“ _How long have you been up?_ ” Jason asks, stopping to stare at his little brother. “And did you _really_ lose your slacks too, or are you just trying to not have to wear them.”

“Since two. I couldn’t sleep.” He doesn’t answer the pants question. Tim has been adamantly against wearing a school uniform since it was first brought up two months ago. Thus far, he and Alfred have been engaged in a deadlock struggle over the uniform.

Jason debates pressing the pants issue, but decides that it’s really not something to worry about—either Tim will make it to school without the uniform and come home with a note reminding “Legal guardians that Gotham Academy has a very strict dress-code, aimed at fostering a sense of respect and academia” that he’ll try to get rid of before Alfred sees it, _or_ Alfred will intercept Tim before he can reach the car and somehow produce the missing “appropriate attire” and insist on Tim getting changed.

So instead, Jason shrugs it off and starts systematically searching the Manor for the missing shoes. Thankfully, Tim tends to take his shoes off in a few, routine places, which narrows the search considerably. It takes nearly an hour to find the shoes, which are stuffed underneath an armchair in the library. Jason fishes them out and tosses them at Tim, letting out an inaudible sigh of relief when the boy catches them _before_ they hit him in the head.

“Put them on quick,” he says, hastily pulling his own jacket on. “We’re supposed to be downstairs and ready to go in, like, _two minutes._ ” He watches Tim fumble with the shoelaces for a few seconds, the groans and shoves the jacket at his brother. “ _Oh my God!_ Just put this on and let me do it. Dude, you’re almost _thirteen,_ how can you _not tie shoes?_ ”

“I _can,_ I’m just not that fast at it,” Tim says defensively. “Had to figure out how to do it myself. ‘S not that easy making the stupid bow-thing.”

“Okay. Look, here’s what you’re _supposed_ to do,” Jason says in a much calmer tone. “Just…promise that you won’t tell Bruce or Alfred what I’m doing _until_ tonight.” Tim nods in agreement. “Good. So, here’s what you gotta do with these laces.”

\---

Bruce is thoroughly preoccupied as he rides home from work. His main thoughts are surprisingly mundane for a man who moonlights as a vigilante: Jason’s sixteenth birthday is this month, and he’s unsure of what to do about it—he benched Jason from being Robin last week, and the two of them haven’t really spoken since that last shouting match. In addition, he hadn’t been expecting so many complications when it came to enrolling Tim in school—they’d waited until summer break was nearly over to begin the discussion and process, and neither Tim nor the school system had been overly thrilled. It turned out that there were almost no records for Timothy Jackson Drake, though whether it was a result of poor parenting, secretarial error, or something else that The Court of Owls had destroyed, Bruce still hasn’t determined.

Needless to say, Gotham Academy hadn’t been thrilled to admit a child with so little information (although they probably had taken one look at Bruce when he’d taken Tim in for the school tour and immediately thought “Oh God, no. Not another one!”) and it had taken several sizable donations and test scores to convince them. It would seem that for a child with so much trauma and several years without formal education, Tim was incredibly smart, and the Academy had been a lot more interested in admitting a child-prodigy than they’d been in admitting any of Bruce’s children to begin with, Tim included.

It amazed Bruce, when he stopped to think about it, just how much his life had changed since all those years ago when he’d impulsively decided to take in an orphaned acrobat with huge blue eyes and a quick smile. He can’t believe just how much these boys have taken over his life—there was evidence everywhere, from many broken items that hadn’t survived teenaged hijinks, to the homework he’s accidentally taken to work on several occasions; even the inside of the car bears signs of three active boys: several stickers stuck to the windows, a soccer jersey stuffed under the passenger seat, three or four ties that had been pulled off the instant the wearer was in the car—and, regardless of the mess, Bruce remains continually surprised by how full his life feels.

When the car pulls up to the front door, Bruce feels a sense of determination—he is going to make things right with Jason, no matter how difficult that may be. While he’s definitely still furious with the risks Jason took and disappointed in the entire incident with Garzonasa last week, Jason is still his son, and Bruce knows that he’s been handling things wrong and he has to fix it.

The Manor is quiet this evening—Dick is off-world on a mission, Jason has a study group (if Bruce remembers correctly), and Tim isn’t normally the world’s most rambunctious child. Bruce takes a moment to enjoy the unusual peace before heading into the kitchen. Alfred is there, preparing something that smells incredibly good, and he glances up to inform Bruce that “Young Master Timothy’s teacher sent home a note”, indicating the yellow paper on the counter.

Bruce groans softly and scans the paper, before sighing and saying “I’ll talk to him after I pick Jason up from the library. I don’t suppose we could just bribe them into letting him ignore the dress code?”

Alfred doesn’t bother responding, so Bruce stuffs the paper into his back pocket. Then he heads towards the cave, passing through the living room as he does so. He pauses to ruffle Tim’s hair, chuckling at the put-out expression on the boy’s face.

By the time he’s in the cave, however, Bruce’s good mood is mostly gone. There are plenty of things to be concerned about as Batman. For one, he’s not sure what to do with Tim when it comes to this aspect of their lives: he can’t really forbid Tim from joining them—Dick helpfully pointed out that the boy had been following them around since he’d been _nine—_ but at the same time, he’s terrified to think of everything that could go wrong by letting a—and he hates to admit that this is what he’s dealing with— _a Talon_ out in Gotham and trust him to deal with criminals. He’s watched Tim train, and he can see the danger there, it’s in every sparring match where it’s obvious Tim wants to aim straight for the killing blow, it’s there every time the boys start a contest over who can aim the best and Tim consistently hits the dummy in the vital areas, and it’s there whenever anyone startles him and his face goes blank, body ready and tense.

Bruce doesn’t even want to think of what could happen if he lets _that_ out onto the streets. He can see the danger hiding inside Tim as much as he can see the anger that follows Jason like a dark shadow. Finding himself unable to really focus because of the swirling emotions, he gives up on analyzing anything and decides to dedicate the next hour or so to physical exertion.  

By the time he needs to get cleaned up and get Jason, Bruce’s mind is much calmer, even though he still has no idea what to do about either boy. After taking a quick shower, he forgoes the usual suit and tie in favor of sweats and a t-shirt. He jogs down the stairs and into the dining room, where he pauses when he sees the strange expression on his youngest child’s face.

“Hey, Tim,” Bruce says carefully. “You okay?”

Tim nods, still looking at him. “You look… _normal,_ ” he blurts, then flushes and slaps a hand over his mouth, clearly horrified that he’d said that out loud.

It’s all Bruce can do not to burst into laughter. He can’t really keep his voice steady when he answers though. “Well, I can’t wear Armadi _every day,_ Tim. It’s not really practical. It’d be like you wearing your school clothes all day, even on weekends.”

“Oh,” Tim says, fidgeting with the cuff of one sleeve. He looks up suddenly, sheepish expression on his face. “I didn’t wear those stupid pants.”

“I know. We’re gonna have to do something about that though. You can’t keep doing that, okay? Look,” Bruce sighs and glances at his watch. “I’ve gotta go get your brother. Why don’t you think of some sort of compromise and we’ll talk about it after dinner.”

Tim’s face goes totally blank for an instant, but then he nods and mutters some sort of confirmation. Bruce frowns at the strange reaction, but he blows it off and heads out. _Hopefully it’ll all work itself out._

\---

Bruce rushes up the front steps and into the house, letting the door slam behind him in his hurry to get inside. Still moving swiftly, he calls out “Alfred! Alfred, did Jason say anything to you about where he’d be going after school?”

The butler meets him halfway to the dining room, frown on his face. “No, he didn’t say anything regarding that. I just assumed that all was well. Is something wrong, Master Bruce?”

“Jason wasn’t at the library. In fact, both the librarian and his teachers all say they didn’t see him at all today.”

“I see. I’ll start contacting some of his friends—perhaps they’ll have some idea of where to find him,” Alfred says, surprisingly collected. “I don’t suppose you’ve check his phone yet?”

Bruce shakes his head no, and turns around to stride towards his office. He can track Jason’s phone on the computer—a function that the teen knows nothing about and that he’s never had cause to use before. He’s in the doorway to the office when he stops abruptly, struck by the absence of the only other person in the house at this time.

It takes him several minutes to find Tim. The boy has an impressive talent for disappearing, and Bruce worries at first that this will be one of those times. But he’s surprised to find his child hiding in the bedroom closet. He’d almost overlooked it, but he remembers Dick mentioning that Tim had a thing for hiding in closets.

Bruce takes a deep breath and knocks softly on the door, then opens it slowly.

“Tim? I know you’re in here, kiddo.”

Tim is pressed up against the far wall, staring at him with huge eyes. _He’s been pulling at his cuticles again,_ Bruce notes, seeing the blood on the boy’s fingers. It’s a subconscious habit that none of them have been able to prevent, and it tends to leave Tim’s fingers looking like they’ve gone through a shredder.

“Okay. Why don’t you come out of there and we’ll get your hands cleaned up,” He coaxes gently. “Come on.”

The boy moves excruciatingly slowly, until Bruce’s jaw is sore from being clenched with pent up frustration. He does his absolute best to keep it in though, because the last thing he needs it for Tim to decide to bolt on him—a very real possibility in situations like this. Somehow, he manages to stay calm until Tim is out of the closet, fingers washed and bandaged, and the boy is sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him warily.

“Okay,” Bruce says, pulling the desk chair out to sit down. “Look: I know you know that Jason wasn’t at the library. Do you know where he went?”

Tim’s face is blank, eyes focused somewhere past Bruce’s head, but he does answer. “He didn’t want me to let you know. He was worried you’d be mad.”

Bruce sighs. “Well, I’m _not mad,_ Tim. I mean, I am, a little. But it’s because I’m very worried about Jason and I want to know where he is so that I can make sure that he’s safe. _I promise that I’m not mad._ ”

He can tell that Tim doesn’t believe him—Bruce knows that in Tim’s world, even _before_ The Court, there was nothing wrong with a child deciding to take off alone, in his world, people _do not worry._ They get mad. They don’t care about whether others are safe or not. There were no concerned parents tearing the house apart to find you, no one terrified at the thought of what might have happened. There might be a furious parent, inconvenienced by the trouble caused, or an angry hotel manager wanting you out. So no, Tim does not believe him.

But he _does_ answer.

“He’s in Africa. Used the credit card to get a plane ticket. Said not to tell until ‘ _at least_ tonight’. Said he’d be back before Monday,” Tim mumbles, totally shut down, probably waiting for some sort of reaction, some kind of consequences. “Didn’t want you to be upset or think he wasn’t happy.”

“Why is he in _Africa???_ ” Bruce demands, losing control of his tone on the last word.

“’Slookin’forhismom,” the boy says, so indistinctly that it takes Bruce a few moments to decipher the words.

“His mom is _dead_ , Tim.”

“Not his biological mom. Catherine was his stepmom. Found out a while ago,” Tim says, picking at the Band-Aids on his fingers. “Don’t know _who_ bio-mom is, but she’s in Africa. Maybe.”

 Bruce is still reeling from the explanation, and he ends up nodding slowly. “Okay. Thank you, Tim. Can you show me where this information is, please? I need to know where he’s at. I’m not going to stop him _or_ hurt him—I’d _never hurt you,_ either. But he can’t do this alone, Tim.”

Tim relaxes _very minutely._ “Okay. I can show you.”


	2. Time Well Spent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has a plan, no, REALLY. But he has to admit that he regrets keeping Bruce in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were curious, the title, ignoring my shitty grammar, says "The Wrong Boy". WITH my shitty grammar, it's just "Wrong Boy", so there it is!

Getting on the plane was both one of the easiest and hardest things Jason has ever done. Logistically, it was a no-brainer—order ticket online, walk into school with Tim, remind him not to tell anyone, catch a shuttle to the airport, present ticket, wait to board, and read through most of the flight. Internally, he alternated between a sort of thrill at the adventure ahead and the possibility of finding his mom, guilt because Bruce is gonna freak out and Tim didn’t really deserve to be the one stuck dealing with that, and fear that maybe his mother won’t want him—there was a reason she’d given him up, right?—and maybe Bruce won’t want him after this either, feeling betrayed by Jason’s choice. Even the book he brought along couldn’t distract him enough, and he’d been relieved when the plane landed in Cairo.

His plan is to spend the night at the hotel, then head out early to catch a bus to Tel Aviv in the morning. Thanks to Tim and Google, Jason knows that one of the women he’s looking for, Sharmin Rosen, is supposed to be stationed near there. This plan goes fairly well—he doesn’t oversleep, and he naps all the way to Lebanon. There’s a two-hour delay there, and he figures that lunch is probably in order at this point, so he leaves the station and heads out, following directions from Google Earth. Jason’s not stupid enough to try any of the local restaurants right now—the last thing he needs is food poisoning or illness from some strange microbe his body isn’t used to. So he finds the nearest McDonald’s and orders a cheeseburger.

Sighing, he takes his food and finds a table in one corner of the establishment, where he can keep an eye on the entrances while he eats. After a few minutes, Jason scoffs at his own paranoia and pulls his book out to read while he enjoys the greasy meal. He’s halfway through the chapter when someone clears their throat loudly. He looks up and almost jumps out of his skin.

“You could’ve at least brought some homework on this trip, so you wouldn’t get behind,” Bruce says seriously, giving Jason a look that clearly means he’s pissed. The man stares at him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. “Although I suppose that probably didn’t occur to you at all.”

Jason hops up, trying to find some excuse, some explanation that’ll make this all seem less like a wild, half-assed scheme and more like a legitimate search. “Bruce! I…uh, you see…it’s just…I _had to…_ ”

“Jason, calm down, I know what you’re doing here. Tim told me.” Bruce says drily, pulling a chair out for himself. “By the way, you owe him a lot, Jay. That was incredibly unfair of you.”

“I know,” Jason says, feeling the guilt bubbling up again. “Sorry. I just…I didn’t want you to—“

“I understand,” Bruce interjects gently. “I wouldn’t have been upset, and I’m a little hurt that you didn’t trust me with this, but I do understand, Jay. And I hope you understand that when we get back to Gotham, you _are_ going to be in trouble.”

Jason breathes out slowly, equally relieved and panicked. “I can’t go back yet! I’ve gotta—“

“I’ve already informed the school that you’ll be out for about a week. That should give us enough time.”

“Oh.”

Bruce nods in agreement. “Yes, ‘oh’. I know this is important to you, Jason. I’ll help you find your mother, assuming one of these women _is_ your mother. But no more running around without telling me anything, got it?”

“Yessir.” Jason hesitates for a moment, then darts forward and gives his father a quick hug. “Thanks.”

They sit awkwardly as Jason gulps down the last of his lunch. It’s obvious that Bruce is still pissed and tense, but he gets the impression that it’s not _all_ directed at him. As soon as he’s done, Bruce announces that he’s not letting Jason take the bus further, which Jason can’t really argue to hard against. He follows his father out of the restaurant and into the hot sun. They walks a few blocks to a dark car that’s idling next to the sidewalk. Bruce opens the door for Jason to slide in, then walks around to get into the passenger’s seat.

Jason is surprised to find Tim sitting in the backseat, watching him nervously.

“The hell is he doing here?” Jason blurts out. He’s not unhappy to see the kid, but at the same time, it seems like another unnecessary complication.

“Language, Jason,” Bruce says, glancing back at the two of them. “It would seem that your brother is just as good at getting what he wants as you and Dick are; possibly more so. And as he so thoughtfully pointed out, it’d make no sense for you to be out of school for a week and him not to be.”

And with that, he turns back to the front, saying something to the driver, clearly finished with the discussion.

Jason gives his younger brother an appraising look. “You said that?”

“Also said I’d just buy my own ticket if he didn’t let me come,” Tim says, shrugging. “Got Alfred to back me up, too.”

“Huh.”

Tim nods slightly and leans back against the seat, watching the scenery out the window attentively. Jason sighs and turns to his own window, trying to sort through his feelings about these newest developments. He has this weird sense of doom hanging over him, like there’s something wrong, even though there’s absolutely nothing that it could be.

\---

Sharmin turns out to be a bust. There’d been nothing to her relationship with Willis Todd, though she was certainly apologetic about it. It’d been a big disappointment, and the only thing that had been gained from the entire interaction was the information that the Joker was somewhere in Northern Africa, although he’d left the Middle East right before they’d arrived. Bruce hadn’t been thrilled by this, and he’d not-so-subtly suggested that Jason should wait until a later time to continue his search. But since he hadn’t come out and said it, Jason pretended to not understand and insisted that they kept going.

While the trip to Tel Aviv was a total failure, it had at least been interesting. Jason’s full experience with travelling came down to a couple cities in America—school had taken a priority, and then Tim showed up—and this was his first time abroad. He’d had to pry, but eventually he gathered that Tim hadn’t been out of Gotham more than a few times, so this was all new to him too. And even though the entire premise of this trip is to try and find Jason’s long-lost mother, they manage to have a pretty good time, in spite of the circumstances and Joker’s looming presence.

By Thursday, they’ve crossed Lady Shiva off the already short list. That hadn’t gone half as well as the encounter with Sharmin, but nobody died. Granted, it’d literally taken Batman having a full-on battle with the assassin and _then_ they’d had to drug her to get any information anyway. She’d been pretty pissed off, and about the only nice thing she said during the time they’d all spent there had been to inform Tim that she felt he had “potential”, which Bruce seemed to find threatening and Tim had absorbed with his usual blank expression (Jason though it was sort of funny, since she hadn’t even won against Batman, and any of the Talons had lasted longer than she did).

Friday found them in Ethiopia by one, and Jason’s starting to lose hope. By the time they’ve checked into the hotel, he’s already snapped at Tim at least twice, which is totally unfair, since all Tim’s done is complain that he doesn’t feel good and look like he was going to cry when Jason told him to shut up.

The trek up to their room is hot and miserable. Jason’s stomach hurts because he’s just _so frustrated._ He _knows_ that he should say sorry, and that he’s really not even mad—he’s just trying not to cry because he’s really starting to think that this was all just a waste of time. But he doesn’t say anything at all, so the silence continues.

Bruce has to struggle with the door to get it unlocked and opened, and he waves them both inside with an annoyed expression still on his face. He closes the door behind him, probably with a little more force than he should’ve. Jason tosses his bag on the floor and throws himself onto the nearest bed.

“Okay,” Bruce sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s see if the air conditioning works in here. Jay, do you want to take a break before we go?”

“No.”

“Alright.” Bruce spends a few moments messing with the thermostat and breathes out slowly in relief when cool air starts to flood the room. “Let’s get everything situated and then we’ll head out. You okay, Tim?”

Jason glances over and even he can tell that Tim looks about two shades too pale, even though he’s shaking his head yes. Bruce is totally unconvinced and walks over to check Tim’s temperature, asking him questions. After a few minutes of this mostly one-sided conversation, he sighs and tells Tim to lie down. Tim does so with almost no hesitation, which means he’s really not feeling good. Feeling guilty, Jason scoots over to give his brother more space on the bed, watching him with some concern.

“He’s not sick, right?” Jason asks as soon as Bruce comes back from the restroom with a glass of water and some Tylenol.

Bruce hands Tim the pills and cup, ordering him to take them before he answers Jason. “Probably not. It’s just hot here. None of us are used to that, which is why I keep telling you both to drink water. Tim probably just didn’t drink enough, that’s all. You’ll feel a little better after some water and a nap.” This last bit is addressed at Tim, who looks half-asleep already.

“We can wait a little bit,” Jason offers, because he can’t think of anything else he can do to make up for being a jerk.

“I’m okay,” Tim protests, sitting up and wincing when he does so. “Really.”

Bruce sighs and gently pushes the boy back down. “The goal here is to _not_ get sick, Tim. It’s okay to need a break.”

Tim looks close to tears. “I’m _fine._ It’s okay, I’m okay. We don’t have to wait for me. Jason needs to—“

“I’m cool waiting,” Jason says again.

“B-but…your—“

Bruce steps in before the argument is fully-formed. “Would it be better if we went ahead, and you stayed here to take a nap?” He sounds reluctant to even suggest it, but seems to understand that it’s probably the only sort of compromise he can make. “We can leave you Jason’s phone, and you can call if you need anything.”

“…Okay.”

“Alright,” Bruce says, leaning over and smoothing Tim’s hair back. “We’ll do that then. But you have to _promise_ that you’ll call and let me know if you need _anything. Got it?_ I don’t care if it’s something stupid or not, okay?”

Tim nods and looks relieved. He’s already blinking sleepily when Jason shows him how to use the phone, and he barely acknowledges them when they leave. When they’re out in the hall, Jason stops, feeling pretty miserable himself.

“What’s wrong, Jay?” Bruce must’ve noticed and he comes over and crouches down to Jason’s level. “Are you alright?”

Jason nods slowly. “Y-yeah. I just…do you think this is a waste of time? I mean…we haven’t found _anything_ and now Tim’s sick and—“

“I think this is important to _you,_ ” Bruce says, squeezing his shoulder. “Which makes it important to me _and_ Tim. And I don’t think it’s a waste of time if it will help you in _any_ way.”

“Okay,” Jason breathes in shakily. “Thanks, Dad. Let’s…let’s finish this.”

\---

Tim’s still not sure why he insisted on coming with Bruce. Maybe he was worried about leaving Bruce and Jason alone together? They’d been fighting a lot and it made him feel like the ground was about to drop out from under him at any second. In his experience, when people important to him—whether because he loved them or because his life was in their hands, sometimes literally—fought, it meant bad things, normally for him.

He needs Jason to be there, because Jason never look at him like he’s a ticking time bomb. Dick does it, but he’s always got this sad look, and Tim doesn’t know what that means. But Bruce does it too, and his eyes aren’t sad, they’re calculating and wary. Bruce doesn’t believe that he’s really safe to be around people. Tim _knows_ that Bruce thinks that—he’s not stupid, and at least once a week, Bruce makes it a point to tell him that killing someone is the worst possible thing for someone to do, and it’s not subtle enough for Tim to think he’s talking in general. And one time, he just _had_ to ask—what if _I_ kill someone again?

Bruce has never brought up the fact that Tim’s killed people, not since that first time, when he’d gotten mad that Tim hadn’t been more upset over it. But Tim wanted— _needed_ to know what Bruce would do. Because he _needs_ to know the rules of this family— _there are always rules._ So he’d asked, and Bruce had looked at him for a long while with those eyes…and then he’d said “I can’t condone that sort of behavior, Tim. I’d have no choice but to ensure that you can’t do so again.”

Tim hadn’t really expected a different answer, but his stomach had clenched anyway, and his heart froze. Because he knows that there _is_ a limit to what Bruce can forgive. And he knows that this means his new position in this family is uncertain, dependent on so many variables outside of Tim’s power. He won’t kill for himself, _ever,_ because his life is definitely not worth anyone else’s, and he’s died before. But he’s not so sure that he’ll be able to say the same if it’s someone else in danger, someone like Jason or Dick. _Or Bruce._

And since he’s feeling like crap, since everything is on fire and his head is going to explode, this is all he can think about: can he sit there while people he loves die, and _not do anything?_ Eventually, he does doze off, too exhausted to even dream, so tired that his ghosts aren’t waiting for his eyes to close.

When he wakes up, he feels a lot better, especially after he drinks some more water. He’s hoping that Bruce is right and all he needs to do is stay hydrated—not something he’s so great at. Sighing, Tim turns the phone on to check the time. It’s nearly seven, and there’s no messages from Bruce. He can feel the worry bubbling up inside of him, and he does his best to quell it. Deciding it’s better to stay distracted, he turns the T.V. on and sits back against the head of the bed to wait.

He’s only half-through the first show when the door swings open and Bruce and Jason come in. Bruce looks tired and has that line between his eyes that means he’s concerned about something. Jason, on the other hand, looks surprisingly happy, a big grin on his face as he jumps onto the bed next to Tim.

“I’ll order us something to eat,” Bruce announces before anyone else can speak. “And then I’m going to be going out for a while, okay? Jason, you’re going to stay here with Tim.”

He takes the phone and exits the room before either boy can respond. As soon as he’s gone, Jason’s bouncing up and down on the bed, clearly excited.

“You feelin’ better?” He asks, poking Tim in the arm. “You look better.”

“Uh-huh. What happened? Did you find her?”

Jason’s grin grows bigger and he starts to talk animatedly. “Yeah! So, her name’s Sheila, and she works for this charity that’s here helping the refugees. She’s a doctor! Anyway, we talked for, like, _hours,_ and she was really happy to see me, and says she always wished she hadn’t left me with my dad. I told her that was okay and that I was just glad to have found her. And we got lunch and she showed me around the camp and then she and Bruce talked for a little bit, and he said they’d figure out a way for me to see her more, if she wanted. And she did! And then—“

Bruce swings the door open suddenly, rushing and digging through his luggage. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to leave before the food gets here. I’ve already paid for it, so you guys just have at it. Please try not to stay up too late. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but you’ll be able to reach me if you need anything. I’m really sorry, boys.”

Jason and Tim both say that it’s okay, and they watch as their father finishes throwing things into a bag and heads for the door.

He pauses before exiting, looking over at them. “Please be good for me. Jason, don’t pick on your brother. And Tim? Drink more water—we don’t need you getting sick, okay? I’m very sorry about this, Jay, but I _swear_ we’ll talk when I get back.”

And then he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to make a nod to Lady Shiva, because I'm a nerd. In the comics, she's actually the one who teaches Tim how to use a bo staff.   
> So, otherwise, it's been a shitty week. I've got a brain tumor, which sucks. Not cancer, but it's royally fucking up my vision and memory. I can't drive, and I also couldn't remember how to multiply single digits. So, needless to say, college is not going well. I DID score a 92 on my midterm though, which is amazing! If the chapter makes little sense, blame the tumor.


	3. Minds Made Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Tim both have decisions to make tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time. I wanna get the next bit just right.

It takes Jason less than three hours to make up his mind. Tim watches him silently, pretending to be asleep whenever the older boy glances over. But he doesn’t miss anything: the way Jason flips through his book, not really reading it, the way he sighs and looks up at nothing every few minutes, not even the way he chews on the inside of his cheek. Tim catches all of it, and he knows that Jason is trying to decide.

He doesn’t say anything at all though, until Jason moves silently over to his bag, digging through until he pulls out something that flashes red and yellow in the light for an instant. He doesn’t say anything while Jason gets changed, or when he sets about making up the bed so it looks occupied. And then Jason goes to grab the phone.

“Where’re you going?” Tim asks, because he really isn’t sure what Jason is thinking.

Jason jumps about a foot in the air, jerking his hand away from the phone. “Holy fuck, man! I thought you were out cold.  For fuck’s sake, Tim!”

“Where are you going?” He ignores the incredulous look that Jason gives him.

“Just…go back to sleep, okay? I’ll be back before Bruce is.”

Tim has learned a lot about how to get his way with things over the years. So now he jumps out of bed and snatches the phone before Jason can react. He crosses his arms and scowls, having to tilt his head up slightly to meet Jason’s eyes.

“Jason Peter Todd, you tell me what you’re doing or I’m gonna call Bruce!”

Jason gapes, torn between annoyance—it’s _his_ phone—and laughing—bed-headed, pajama wearing Tim isn’t a very formidable sight at all. But he manages to hold it together.

“That’s _my_ phone.”

Tim shrugs and grips the phone tighter.

“Look, just…I’ve gotta… _give me the Goddamn phone!_ ”

This last bit is hissed out because Tim has turned the phone on and is opening the call app. Jason lunges and misses—the Talon training has paid off for Tim, who side-steps and jumps onto the other bed, phone clutched in both hands. Jason whirls around, glaring.

“ _Okay!_ Knock it off!” He waits until the screen goes dark to continue. “I need to take care of something, okay? I’m gonna be right back.”

“As Robin?” Tim looks skeptical.

“Yes. Well, _not exactly._ But kinda. Look, I’ve gotta go talk to my mom for a few minutes and then I’m coming right back.”

“Without Bruce?” Now the expression has morphed into suspicion. “In the middle of the night?”

“Yes…”

“Yeah right!” Tim looks disgusted. “I’m not stupid and you’re a shitty liar. What. Are. You. Doing?”

Jason groans and tries to remember why he though having a little brother would be fun—it’s like Dick, only cuter and way more stubborn. “Just go to bed! I swear, all I’m doing is going to meet my mom and coming back.”

“ _Why?”_

“Because,” Jason has to pause, trying to get the wording right. “She deserves to know what she’s getting into, okay? And I want her to know.”

Tim’s expression has turned more uncertain now, but he _still_ hasn’t dropped the phone yet. “He’s not gonna like that.”

“I know. But I figure I’ll deal with that later. And he doesn’t _need_ to know. _Please,_ Tim?”

“Fine.” He climbs off of the bed and tosses the phone to Jason. “I don’t think you should go alone though.”

Jason sighs in relief and stuffs the phone into a pouch before any more sneaky little hands can grab it. “Yeah, well I figure he’ll be _even more pissed_ if I let you come, and it’s not like I’m going out into the middle of nowhere or anything. Besides, you’re supposed to be sleeping, remember? And I have a phone, so you can call me if you need to, or I can call if I need help.”

Tim doesn’t argue, which seems like a win. He just watches Jason with _huge_ eyes, fingers playing with a loose string on his shirt— _that,_ Jason knows, means that Tim’s worried, but that he’s not going to say so. He groans and pulls his little brother into a quick hug.

“It’ll be _fine,_ you’ll see, okay? Nothing’s gonna happen. And Bruce isn’t gonna be mad at you, ‘cuz you’re supposed to be asleep right now anyway. I’ll be fine.”

He waits for a few moments until Tim nods slowly and lets go. Jason gives him a grin and heads towards the door.

“Just go back to bed. I’ll be back in a few.”

\---

Tim waits for _exactly_ 8 minutes before he slips out after his brother. He’s very careful to move silently and unseen, but quickly realizes that there’s no real need for it—there’s nobody around for _miles_ after getting out of town, and Jason’s long gone—he must’ve taken a car. Thankfully, it’s not overly complicated to follow him since there’s really only one aid camp, and it’s very easy to snoop around until Tim finds out where Sheila should be.

Unfortunately, because he _is_ on foot, it takes him almost an hour total to get from the hotel to the camp and then out to the warehouse where she’s supposed to be receiving a shipment of medicine and other supplies. Tim’s not entirely sure how organizations like this work, but he’s pretty sure that people don’t normally conduct business at 11 o’clock at night. So when he gets there and there’s no one outside, he’s not actually surprised, just worried, because there’s nothing normal about this situation, and Jason’s supposed to be inside somewhere.

Breathing in and out slowly in an effort to calm his nerves, Tim walks down the slope towards the warehouse. He’s not really used to sand and trips twice, sliding down the hill until he awkwardly catches himself. Finally, he makes it to the bottom and moves quickly towards the door. His plan is to just slip in, make sure Jason is okay, and leave without being seen. But it changes in an instant when a chilling cackle echoes through the night from inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cue dramatic music*


	4. Bones and Bombs

There have been plenty of times that Jason thought he might die: that time he fell in the bay before he knew how to swim, the first couple of times he’d gotten shot at as Robin, and there’d been countless times when he’d been out on the streets and thought that it’d been the end. But right now, the feeling that he might die here is rapidly turning into a realization that, hey, he’s really about to die, because he’s in the middle of freaking nowhere, Bruce is off doing Batman things, he didn’t give Tim any actual location to go off of—not that he wants Tim anywhere near this mess—and this means his on his own. And he is going to die.  
His head throbs, the Joker’s laughter rings in his ears, interspersed with the thud of every blow and the crrrack-snap of each bone that breaks. There had been screaming, at the start, before survival instinct kicked in and all energy was focused onto getting away. His arm is definitely broken—more like shattered—and one of his legs as well. Several ribs are cracked, but nothing has ruptured…yet. Jason’s hope right now is to play dead until the blows ease up, then fucking run for it. If he even can—he’s not sure how long he’s been here, if he can put pressure on his leg, if he’ll be able to breathe enough to get out.   
“Tell me which hurts more,” Joker taunts, punctuating his next few words with blows. “A, or B?”  
Jason tries to create distance, snarling through the pain. His back hits something though, and now he’s trapped between the madman and a sturdy barrier.   
The Joker giggles maniacally and keeps swinging the crowbar down with as much force as he can. “Backhand, or—“  
It takes Jason several moments to realize that there’s no impact, that the sentence never ended. Slowly, weakly, he uncurls from the fetal position to see what’s happened. He can hear the laughter continuing, but there’s no blows raining down. Jason’s eyes are swollen and blurry and he struggles to open them and focus. At first, all he sees are blurs and smudges—a pale and tall one he knows is the Joker, blobs that are probably boxes, and a small, black smudge that seems to wobble and move. But things start to take shape, first just sharpening, and finally becoming distinct enough to make out. And his heart sinks further than he thought it could, because Tim is standing off with the Joker.  
The madman is idly swinging the crowbar, stalking forward as he attempts to get close enough to connect. Tim is wearing a dark pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, and he nimbly avoids the Joker, weaving in and out between the boxes. Jason’s mind is trying to catch up, trying to move past the relief of having help and the new terror because that’s his baby brother that the psychopath is focusing on. And as his head starts to clear, it’s obvious that Tim is not moving quite right, not like Jason’s seen him do—he’s too slow, not coordinated, he hesitates. Jason starts struggling up, because he has to do something. But he’s still on his knees when a blow actually connects.   
The crowbar hits solidly, eliciting a barely-audible gasp of pain. And because Tim is much smaller than Jason, the blow actually lifts him and sends him slamming against a crate. He hits it hard and clearly has the wind knocked out of him. He lands on the ground, gagging and trying to suck air into his lungs. The Joker smiles, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he slowly moves forward.  
“Well, well, well, I knew Batsy likes to hang around with little birdies,” the madman practically purrs. “But an owl? That’s a new one. So nice that you dropped in, though. I’m afraid that that little birdie has a broken wing at the moment.”  
Tim snarls and springs forward, easily avoiding the weapon, twisting so that he smacks the man’s wrist at an angle, sending the bar flying across the room. But he hesitates on the follow up, and the Joker is quick to spot the opening. He spins, easily slamming the boy against a couple of crates, pulling something out of his pocket as he does so. Tim pushes off the crates, forcing both of them away from them. He lunges for the Joker’s arm, and Jason’s realizing that it’s a gun when it goes off.  
The sound is deafening on his ears, and Jason scrambles to move towards the crowbar that lies, forgotten on the ground. He continues to watch the struggle, feeling blindly with one hand as he does so. Tim is losing now, the hesitation has given the madman the upperhand. There’s an opening and the man tries to pries the boy’s grip off of his wrist, where his neck is exposed. And Jason can see the hesitation, the way Tim eyes the opening, but doesn’t move, and he remembers the conversation he wasn’t supposed to have heard at all—“What happens if I do kill someone again?” “I can’t condone that sort of behavior, Tim. I’d have no choice but to ensure that you can’t do so again.” Jason gets it then, that Tim’s trying incredibly hard to repress the instincts, the reactions that were driven into him: kill or be killed, take the opening, press the advantage. But he’s so focused on this that he’s taking more hits than he should, unable to find that balance between the two trainings.   
Jason’s fingers brush against the bar, and he scrambles to grab it, hand slipping on the tacky, lukewarm blood coating most of the weapon. He drags it over, feeling the strain on his injured body. Across the room, Tim slams back to the ground suddenly, skidding on the ground and into the crates. He rolls over, struggling to get up again and now there’s a dark patch spreading slowly across the front of the hoodie; it’s obvious that he’s just now noticing the injury.  
The Joker still has the gun though. He cackles, holding it up and taking aim. Tim stares like a deer in the headlights, face pale.  
\---  
He’d knocked Sheila out. It’d been necessary, but it’s what bothers him most at first—he knocked Jason’s mom out, and he’s going to be upset about that.   
And then he got inside and that hadn’t mattered anymore, because Jason looked dead and the Joker is just…beating his brother’s limp body over and over and over. There’s blood spattering, and the bastard is laughing.   
So he’d just jumped right in. And it’d been easy to slam into the maniac, it would have been so easy to just snap his neck and end it then. But he can’t kill the man, because he promised. So he changes tactics, and it doesn’t work well—he has to think before each blow: “will this kill him?” But it doesn’t matter, because Jason is alive and moving and if he can just shout out to his big brother, to tell him that Sheila’s unconscious, that he needs to get her and get out, that he has to run, it’ll be okay. But he can’t shout, because all that’s in his mind is The Court and the warning.   
And when he gets hit, it’s not too bad. But he feels funny. By the time the gun goes off and his shoulder exploded into pain and heat, he’s starting to figure it out—his blood has no more electrum, there’s no way for him to heal like he used to. He dies, it’s final, there’s no coming back. And so the pain feels different, because there’s nothing to stop it. It’s a sensation he’s not had since those first few months, those first few times he died.  
It’s horrible, and he can brush it off, but it costs him the focus to block blows. And then he’s on the ground and his arms gives out when he tries to push up. Then he looks up to see the gun, and he can’t move.   
And then Jason jumps up and slams into the Joker’s back with the crowbar. It is not a good blow, but it knocks his aim off and the bullet barely nicks Tim’s arm. The gun is dropped, and the mad spins around, snatching the crowbar out of Jason’s hands. Jason’s too weak to stop him, and he falls over. The Joker is immediately on top of him, grabbing him by the throat and slamming his head into the ground.   
The gun is. Right. There.  
\---  
Jason struggles, but his strength is all but spent. He tries to force air into his throat, to squeeze it down the windpipe as it’s being crushed. Spots float before him, blocking parts of the maniac’s crazed grin. That’s all he can see—the huge, deranged grin and venom-filled eyes. There’s a bang! And blood sprays into Jason’s face as the pressure on his neck suddenly ceases and the man collapses onto him.   
He struggles to shove the body off, trying to figure out what has just happened. And then he sees Tim still holding the gun, frozen in place. Jason scrambles up and hallway trips as he hurries over and pulls the gun out of his brother’s hands.   
“We need to get out of here,” he hisses, tossing the gun aside. “He’s…there’s a bomb, okay? I don’t know how long…”   
Jason trails off, looking around for the bomb—it’s sitting on a crate a little ways away from where he’d originally been pinned. There’s a cliched clock display on it, reading off the time remaining: 30 seconds.   
“Oh, fuck!” He jerks Tim upright and starts dragging him to the nearest door, trying to keep both of them moving as fast as they can.   
They stumble outside, the shifting sand causing them to trip. Somehow, Jason gets them both to the make-shift road. He’s struggling to catch his breath when he remembers—Sheila. And even though she let all of this happen, he can’t let her die, so he turns to run back in.  
The blast sends him flying back. And for a long moment, everything is black. And then he can see, and there’s flames and night sky. Jason struggles up again, wobbling—everything hurts and it’s hard to breath and he knows the adrenaline has to be wearing off. Tim is sitting next to him, staring at the flames with a blank expression. Jason can recognize it—it’s the expression Tim used when he’d started living with them, that blank, flat, emotionless look, like he’s checked out of reality. Of course, Jason’s pretty sure he looks just as dead, but focusing on that is a welcome distraction from the pain that’s quickly overtaking him.  
He can see headlights approaching, and he falls back down to the ground, groaning softly. He’s not sure if the people coming are friendly or not, but he can’t bring himself to care enough react. So instead, Jason closes his eyes and just hopes that if he’s about to die, it’ll happen fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I did instead of studying for finals!


	5. Necessary Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over! No idea if I passed yet, but the relief is real. You guys would not believe how much of a pain it is to write realistic medical terms, especially for gun-related injuries. So much misinformation, and my brain is too fried to do medical terminology.   
> TW for brief descriptions of injuries.

Bruce lets out a deep breath, trying to steady the trembling of his hands. The terror he’d felt earlier is slowly starting to dissipate and turn to a cold sort of anger at himself for failing to foresee all of this, at Jason for sneaking out and being _so reckless,_ at Tim for not just calling him, and, of course, there’s plenty of fury left for the Joker. He can assume, however, that _that_ particular monster is no longer an immediate threat—the authorities are still determining what happened, but there were definitely two bodies, and one of them was most likely the Joker’s.

He can’t confirm this yet, because there’s no way in hell that he’s leaving the wobbly bench in the hospital waiting room before he is absolutely certain that both boys will be fine. Jason hadn’t regained consciousness during the bumpy thirty-minute drive to the hospital, and Tim had yet to speak at all, so there had been no confirmation there, assuming they actually knew.

Sighing, Bruce shoves himself up off the bench and stalks over to the nurse’s station. Before he can open his mouth, however, the nurse sitting behind the counter raises a hand to stop him.

“No, I haven’t heard anything,” she says, standing up. “But I’ll go check again, alright?”

She’s gone before he can actually answer, leaving Bruce to his brooding once more. He’s incredibly thankful, of course, that most of the staff in this rural hospital speak English, but the hospital itself is incredibly old and dilapidated. Idly, he makes a note to invest funds into possible renovations and support efforts for this region—it is, after all, the least he can do after bursting in here and demanding immediate care, bullying the staff, and terrifying at least two nurses.

He perks up a bit as the nurse returns, offering up a strained smile.

She returns it sympathetically. “Your boys are fine. Jason is in surgery right now; our best surgeon is on it, so don’t you worry. And apparently, they were just about to page me to bring you back. The little one, ah, Timothy, I guess he’s giving the poor doctor some trouble.”

Bruce nods slowly, because that _does_ sound like Tim. Numbly, he follows the woman down the hall, working to leave behind all the current distractions— _what, exactly, is wrong with Jason?—_ to focus on the situation at hand. It’s not too difficult to begin to figure out what’s happened when they enter the exam room:  there’s an irate-looking doctor standing close to the door, medical equipment strewn across the floor, and Tim is crouched under the exam table brandishing a scalpel with a panicked expression.

“Okay…” Bruce says softly, taking the scene in. “So…what happened?”

The doctor replies in a terse, quiet tone. “He panicked when the nurse and I attempted to get a look at the injuries—he was fine until she brought scissors over so we could get the shirt off. Flipped the equipment tray, damn near broke my wrist too. I’m not sure _where_ he got the blade from, but after he nearly sliced the fingers off one of my orderlies, I thought it’d be best to leave him until we found a way to calm him down.”

“Alright. I’ll, um, I’ll try to talk him down. We’ll have to figure out the rest as we go.” Hoping he sounds more confident than he feels, Bruce slowly makes his way over to the table, adding “Thank you” as he goes.

He gingerly eases himself down to Tim’s level, working to make sure that he’s not actively trapping the boy. One glance into his son’s eyes tells Bruce that Tim’s definitely mentally checked-out. This, he knows, will make things far more difficult—if Tim is in the middle of some sort of flashback, then he’ll have to find a way to bring the boy back to the present _without_ aggravating the situation any further.

The problem with this is that Bruce is _not_ the best person to do this, he’s much better at extinguishing Jason’s angry outbursts than he is at coaxing Tim out of his silent, self-destructive shell. Dick is _very good_ at doing this (probably because he is, in many ways, a lot like Tim in that area) and Bruce has come to rely on him a great deal when it comes to Tim. But since Dick’s not here, he’s left scrambling to think of what to do and say.

“Tim, I need you to give me the knife, please,” Bruce says as gently as possible. “Can you do that for me?” Unsurprisingly, this does nothing. “Look, you have to come out from under there, kiddo. Nobody is going to hurt you, Tim, I promise. Please give me the knife.”

Again, nothing, and Bruce has to bite his tongue to keep from groaning in frustration—he _knows_ that Tim isn’t intentionally being difficult, and he _knows_ that he’s got to tread very carefully to keep the situation from spiraling further.

“Tim, can you look at me, please? _Look at me, Tim._ ” The boy’s eyes snap into focus. “Thank you. That’s good. That’s…that’s very good. Okay, Tim. Would you please give me the scalpel?

Tim’s eyes flick back to the door, fingers tightening on the surgical instrument. He doesn’t let go of the knife.

“Look,” Bruce sighs softly, glancing at the door himself. “I know that you’re scared, but I swear that these people _are not here to hurt you._ Okay? This is a hospital, they only help people here. They’re not going to do anything besides help you. It’s safe, I promise.”

The knife isn’t dropped, but Tim does take his eyes off the door to look over at him. Bruce counts it as a win and slowly eases himself down to sit, moving a little closer as he does; unfortunately, he doesn’t quite estimate the table’s height properly and bumps his head on it when he does.

“Okay,” Bruce says, wincing a little and rubbing the side of his head. “Can you let me have the knife? We don’t have to move, just…please, put it down.”

For a good second, he thinks that this plea will also go unanswered, but then Tim cautiously drops the scalpel into Bruce’s outstretched hand. Bruce quickly sets the knife aside, out of Tim’s reach.

“Thank you. Does your stomach hurt?”

Tim shrugs.

“Okay. Is it still bleeding?”

Reluctant nod.

“That’s not good,” Bruce sighs. “You know that we need to fix it, right?”

Shrug.

“Tim, you’ve got to let the doctor make sure you’re okay. Can we at least _see_ what’s wrong?”

The boy presses his lips together tightly and doesn’t answer.

Bruce breathes out slowly. “Look, Tim, I don’t want to _force_ you to do anything, and neither does the doctor. But you’ve got to work with us, okay, buddy? Maybe…we could do the exam under here?” He glances up at the doctor, who shrugs in acquiescence. “Would that work?”

Tim sighs slowly and nods, not actually moving from his position. This leads into a minute long process of coaxing him close enough for Bruce to help him get the shirt off, and another minute or so before the doctor is actually willing to get close enough to examine the boy’s injuries. From his position, Bruce has a good view of the nasty gunshot wound. He knows enough (more than enough) about bullet wounds to identify it as being a point-blank shot, most likely from a handgun—a Glock 22, if he has to guess—and the placement, right under the diaphragm, is going to be a problem too. His immediate thought is internal bleeding, and the look on the doctor’s face seems to corroborate the premonition.

“Okay,” the wary physician announces, having retreated out of reach before speaking. “We’ll have to go in. There’s definitely some damage, and my main concern is internal bleeding, given the location and proximity. The bullet is still in as well, and the stomach’s not a place we can leave bullets in.” He pauses, but quickly preempts Bruce’s half-formed query. “There’s no way to perform such a surgery without putting him under.”

 _Of course there isn’t,_ Bruce barely keeps from saying. Instead, he says “Of course. Okay. Tim, can we possibly move out from under here and discuss options?”

When he doesn’t get an actual protest, Bruce gently tugs the boy out from under the table and lifts him up to sit on top. After a second, he decides to sit next to Tim, hopefully to help keep him calm…and also to stop him from bolting if need be.

“We can’t just pretend that you’re okay,” he ventures, trying to gauge Tim’s attitude. “You understand that, right?”

Tim chews on his bottom lip and doesn’t respond, eyes glazing over a little. Bruce can tell that he’s losing him.

“You know I wouldn’t agree to this if it weren’t absolutely necessary, right? It’s going to be okay, I promise. We have to do this, buddy. I swear, I’ll be right outside the whole time, okay?”

The entire time that he’s been speaking, the doctor has shrewdly been preparing a I.V. line and the syringe for anesthesia. He glances over and meets Bruce’s gaze, waiting for the slow nod before he resumes preparations. Bruce sighs and returns to attempting to reassure Tim.

“It’ll be just fine. You’ll be in and out so fast, you won’t even notice,” he says soothingly, moving slowly to put an arm around the boy’s shoulders—a half-reassuring, half-restraining gesture that he hopes will go undetected. “You’ve had I.V.s before, remember? This’ll be the same thing, just with stronger drugs than normal. Sort of like _really_ strong painkillers.”

Tim leans against him, and Bruce can feel the boy’s body shaking violently.

“Jason’s getting surgery in the other room; he’s under anesthesia too,” Bruce adds, hoping that the knowledge that he’s trusting the surgeons to care for his older son will somehow convince the younger one of the procedure’s safety. “Just try to relax and breathe for me, okay?”

He adjusts his embrace to keep Tim from lashing out or pulling away while the doctor quickly inserts the needle and starts the drip. Tim tenses violently, but doesn’t struggle, instead squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face into Bruce’s side. After a few seconds, he relaxes, going limp as the sedative takes effect.

“There we go,” the doctor says with relief, setting the syringe aside. “I’ll go get a stretcher and page the staff we’ll need. Thank you for your help here.”

Bruce nods. “Of course. I’m so sorry that we’ve caused so much trouble. Um, is anyone seriously hurt?”

“The orderly has had worse, and so have I. It tends to come with the territory around here. Between wars and famines, a lot of people have a hard time trusting us to do our jobs. It _is_ the first time I’ve ever had a patient threaten me with a scalpel though.” The doctor offers him a humorous smile. “No hard feelings. Kid’s a fighter, that’s for sure. I’ll be back in a minute or so.”

The room feels incredibly silent with the physician gone, and Bruce finds himself wishing desperately for the man to return and distract him from the dark thoughts quickly flooding his mind. He sighs and adjusts Tim so that the boy’s head isn’t at an awkward angle. He’s terrified that he may have just totally destroyed the fragile trust that’s taken months to foster, even though it was necessary to _save_ his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bruce is trying, but he's really not the best at this sort of thing, even in the comics. He's REALLY good at dealing with Jason and his pretty obvious emotional tells, especially when Jason's younger. But he's super awkward when it comes to Tim and even Dick. I always thought that was pretty interesting.   
> Dick and Tim both seem to have really similar coping mechanisms, especially the denying there's a problem and self-destructive tendencies bit. Dick's normally a bit better at dealing with it (in the comics), probably because he's older and has a better understanding of what "healthy" coping skills are and what support systems he's got. Which is probably why he's so good with Tim and then Damian. Bruce seems to have issues dealing with anything super subtle (of course, the fact that he's so shut off after Jason's death probably never helped).


	6. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason feels like death and Bruce needs to make decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you've ever been to a hospital in another country, but a lot of countries, especially those in the Middle East, most African countries, and a lot of countries in South America don't have separate hospital rooms for recovering patients. If you're in a war-zone, then you're lucky to *have* a hospital at all. It's pretty awful. If you'd like to help provide better care for people in war-zones, you can donate to the Karam Foundation: https://www.karamfoundation.org/ or Doctors Without Borders: http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/?ref=donate-header.   
> That's my spiel for the day! I've got many friends in Syria and the refugee camps in Greece, so this is a cause that is near and dear to my heart :)

 Jason wakes up feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. And then he remembers that, oh yeah, he was just about beaten to death with a crowbar and then blown up. So honestly the pain isn’t really that bad. He tries to lift his head up and then groans, because his head feels like it’s full of cement.

“Hey,” Bruce’s voice comes from somewhere to the left, way too reassuring for Jason’s taste. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay, Jay.”

“’S always a…lie…” Jason groans, realizing that his mouth hurts a ton too.

Bruce chuckles softly. “I promise you, it’s not a lie. You’re going to be okay. Some broken bones, some skull fracturing, and you had to have surgery for a ruptured spleen and a collapsed lung, but they managed to save both—a little bit more damage, and you wouldn’t have a spleen. Basically, Jay, you’re incredibly lucky. They say everything should heal up just fine.”

Jason groans.

“Are you feeling okay? I can call the nurse—“

“Nnnn…’s good. Not that bad, right?” Jason says, as sarcastically as possible. He laboriously rolls his head to the side so that Bruce is in his line of sight. “’S good.’S Tim—“

“Your brother’s okay too,” Bruce cuts him off. He shifts in his seat so that Jason can see the bed next to him, where Tim’s laying, either unconscious or simply asleep. After a second, Bruce says “He’ll be fine. The…uh, the bullet made a mess of his spleen. They couldn’t save it, but he can live without it just fine, okay? They managed to patch up everything else, and um…yeah…he’ll be okay.”

Jason wants to point out that the way Bruce’s voice shook doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. His mouth doesn’t want to work, so he doesn’t say anything. After a few seconds, he starts to feel really tired. He closes his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of other patients in the room. He feels Bruce take his hand, and it’s really comforting. That feeling grounds him, fending off the noises that are echoing in the back of his mind—the _thud_ of a crowbar against flesh, the deranged laughter of a sadistic monster, and the blasts of side-arms and bombs going off.

\---

The next time Jason wakes up, a nurse is taking his vitals. She gives him a gentle smile when she notices him staring.

“Hi there. I’m just checking your blood pressure, okay sweetheart? Don’t want anything to start bleeding without us knowing. You thirsty?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” she chirps, moving to check the I.V. lines. I’ll get you some ice chips in just a second, baby. You’re gonna have to deal with ice for a little while—it helps us make sure that you don’t choke if you vomit. Give me a second here.”

She leaves, returning quickly with a cup full of ice chips. Jason is more than a little embarrassed that she has to spoon-feed him, but the ice feels too good for him to complain. While he savors the sensation, she starts talking to him, almost impulsively.

“Your daddy is gonna be right back, okay? He wanted to go make sure everything was set for you to leave when it’s time. I imagine he thought he’d be back before either of you woke up. That’s your little brother over there, right? He’s a cutie. Doesn’t talk much though, huh?” He must look confused, because she moves to the side so he can see Tim—the kid’s mostly upright, knees drawn up to his chest, watching them with huge, glazed eyes.

“They told us not to try and mess with him too much without your dad’s help. When any of us come close, he looks ready to bolt, so we haven’t been able to check anything. I guess he hurt the doctor pre-op or something. You want some more?” She holds up the empty cup.

Jason shakes his head. “Uh-uh. Um, c’n I sit up?”

“I really need you to not, honey,” the nurse says sympathetically. “The more pressure you put on your insides right now.”

“Bu’ he is.”

“I _know._ Been tryin’ to get him to lay back down, but he doesn’t want to listen to me.”

“’S why I need to si’ up. Gotta go over there ‘n talk to ‘im,” Jason says, looking as serious as possible.  “I c’n get ‘im to lay down, ‘kay?”

The woman looks uncertain for a moment, but she finally nods her head. “Okay, honey. Let me help you, alright? The I.V. needs to come with you, and you sure as hell aren’t gonna walk alone. Okay, here we go. On three…one…two…three!”

She heaves Jason up, pretty much carrying him the three feet to the other bed. Tim scoots back up against the wall silently. It takes a few minutes to get the I.V. tower over without pulling the needle out, but they manage it.

“See if you can convince him to let me check those vitals, alright?” She smiles encouragingly and moves over to the far side of the room to check on other patients.

Jason sighs, wincing in pain—she wasn’t kidding when she said they needed to avoid putting pressure on his organs. “Fuck, man. That fucking _hurt._ I’m layin’ down, okay? You need to too. Gotta keep your innards on the inside.”

Tim doesn’t move, so Jason gingerly lays down, head on the pillow next to his brother.

“You okay? B said somethin’ about losin’ a spleen.”

Nothing.

“Jeez, Timmy. C’mon, I need you to work with me, okay? You know ‘m not gonna hurt you.” He reaches over and gently tugs at Tim’s ankles, pulling down one leg, then the other. “C’mon.”

It takes what feels like an excruciating length of time, but finally Tim’s laying down next to him. The younger boy’s eyes are still glazed and blank, face pale and expressionless.

“Thanks,” Jason mutters. He’s working very hard to enunciate his words. “’S better. Y’ good?” He doesn’t get a reply, so he reaches over and brushes some of Tim’s too-long hair out of his eyes. “Jus’ so y’ know, ‘m pretty sure that we c’n get extra jello ou’ of that nurse.”

This does get him a tiny, almost imperceptible smile. But Tim’s eyes are still dead, but now Jason can see tears welling up in them too.

“’S wrong? Y’ need me t’ get the nurse?”

Tim shakes his head “no”.

“’Kay. ‘S it the needles ‘n shit? ‘Cuz Bruce ‘n me aren’t gonna let them hurt you.” Again, no. “Well…what’s up?”

For a few seconds, he thinks that he’s not getting an answer at all. But then Tim lets out a ragged breath, and there are actual tears in his eyes as he whispers hoarsely “he’s gonna get rid of me when he finds out.”

It takes Jason longer than it probably should have to figure out what Tim is talking about.

“Oh.”

Tim sniffles a little and tries to scrub the tears off his face, which is really ineffective since he’s still crying. The effort he’s putting into not crying makes him shake so hard that Jason’s honestly concerned.

“Um, ’m gonna call the nurse, okay? You’re gonna hurt yourself doin’ that.”

The fact that Tim doesn’t put up any sort of protest, even when the nurse does come over, checks his vitals and murmurs something about a new fluid bag and more painkillers is more alarming to Jason than the silence had been. Tim doesn’t even react to her finding a new vein, which Jason _knows_ is something that should freak the kid out, at least a little. It’s like admitting to the fear has totally drained the life out of him.

Jason chews on his lower lip, thankful that the pain he’s feeling is a dull burn when he’s distracted, and tries to think of a way to fix this. Tim’s still crying, though Jason can see the drugs are starting to take effect. Since it hurts to lie on his side, he reaches over and grabs Tim’s hand—it felt really nice when Bruce had done it for him, so maybe it’ll make his little brother feel better.

After a moment, Jason sighs and squeezes Tim’s hand. “Hey. I’m gonna fix it, ‘kay? ‘M not gonna let him do anythin’. Promise.”

He’s not sure if Tim even hears him, but he does mean every word.

\---

Bruce decides to walk back to the hospital after changing back into his civilian clothes. He hopes that the walk will give him time to decide on what to do.

He’d left the hospital as soon as he thought the boys would be alright for a few minutes, hoping to get all their travel plans finalized before he tries to leave the country with two injured teenagers. And then he’d decided to check in on the investigation while he was out, mostly to ensure that neither of the boys would be implicated. Of course, there’d also been this part of him that just _had_ to make sure that the Joker was dead…and that it wasn’t Tim’s fault.

This morbid curiosity had led to him breaking into the morgue to perform his own autopsy, as well as him bribing a member of the investigating team to let him look at the initial findings. And he honestly wished he hadn’t pried at all, because now he’s left with the full dilemma of what to do—the Joker died from a gunshot to the back of the head, not in the explosion.

It was the same gun that Tim had been shot by, which matches the evidence—the only weapons found were a handgun and a crowbar. All fingerprints and other telling evidence was destroyed in the blast and resulting fire, which means that it’s impossible to tell who shot the maniac (as though this was a real mystery). Sheila’s remains were also recovered, but he’d been able to write that off to the explosion, which was a small relief.

The main problem he faces now is that he’s not sure what to do: he’d promised Tim that there would be serious consequences, and he knows that he can’t just drop this, because what happened wasn’t just morally wrong, but it also went against everything that he stood for. And no matter what he feels as a parent, he also has a duty as Batman to uphold the law, and he cannot think of any way that he can do both without compromising his own core beliefs. He’d been totally clear when he’d laid out the rules for Tim—there was no way he would tolerate _any infractions_ to the no-killing rule. He’d made sure that Tim had understood this, had _repeatedly_ reminded him of this. But the evidence was damning. And ever since he’d seen the reports, his mind has been in turmoil.

He was still trying to decide what course to take now, nearly two hours later. The main sticking point is that morally, what Tim has done cannot just be overlooked, as much for his own sake as for justice’s, but every time he starts to go down that road, all he can think of is the vulnerable, trusting expression Tim gave him in the exam room. Bruce can all too easily recall the months it’s taken to get to this point, the small gains that have been made: the shy grins, Tim not flinching at raised voices anymore, the very small gestures of affection that have become more and more frequent. And he’s not sure which would destroy all of this quicker and more efficiently—letting this go and not making Tim own up to the terrible thing he’s done, or the Ethiopian legal system, which is just as corrupt and terrible as Gotham’s.

By the time Bruce reaches the hospital entrance, he’s no closer to an answer than before. So, taking several deep breaths, he goes inside. The nurse on duty offers him a friendly nod as he walks past her to the ward. He runs into another nurse at the front of the room. Apparently, he’s spoken to her before, because she stops with a smile.

“Oh, hi! So, you’ll be happy to know that both boys woke up for a little while. We had a little trouble with the little one, but it worked out just fine. Your Jason was a huge help with him though—he’s a very sweet boy, you know—and they’re both resting peacefully now. Timothy had a little bit of a fever, but it’s nothing to be worried about, most people run a fever following major surgeries. And Jason seemed surprisingly alert for someone who’s been through so much trauma. I’d say they’re gonna be just fine.”

Bruce murmurs something thankful and polite, distracted by the possibilities of what Tim might have done. But the woman had seemed totally fine, so he assumes that it can’t have been too bad. And he’s thrilled to see both boys sleeping peacefully, although neither looks very comfortable. He breathes in slowly again and takes a seat between the two beds, absently leaning over to brush some of Tim’s hair back. He studies the boy’s pale face for a long moment before reclining back into his seat. Bruce closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall—he’s decided to wait until they’re safely back home before confronting Tim about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off, if you'd like to help hospitals in war-torn countries, I've got a couple suggestions up at the top ;)
> 
> Second, I finally found out *why* they give you ice chips after surgery! It's one of those things that I've always wondered and never bothered to learn before. Yay for research!   
> One of my favorite things about Jason's character is that a lot of his standoffishness and attitude is a front--he's a very empathetic person. I've always wondered what kind of brother he'd have been if he hadn't died. Anyway, as we've established before, I'm playing loose with the timeline, so please hold your complaints until the end!


	7. Bang!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I did it. I killed the Joker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the US Memorial Day, I'd like to thank all those currently serving or who have served.   
> I'd also like to take a second to remember two people lost during or after their service who have left a major mark on my life: PFC Chance Phelps, who passed on April 9th, 2004 at the age of 19 while saving his comrades during an ambush; and my dear friend, Staff Sergeant Meghan Gable (Ret.), who passed on March 3rd, 2017 at the age of 25 from medical complications.

The trip home a week later is painfully silent. Every time Bruce goes to speak, he has to bite back the questions he has burning on the tip of his tongue, so he stops trying. The boys don’t seem to care too much—Jason insists on buying a few books before they get on the plane and doesn’t look up at all after take-off; Tim, who’s always been relatively quiet, doesn’t say anything unless prompted. Bruce is still trying to determine why the boys are so calm, what’s just painkillers and what’s everything else.

By the time the plane touches down, he’s figured out that Jason is being defensive—he’d _hoped_ that they’d put all the tension and resentment behind them—and he still has a hard time reading Tim at all, so it’s either fear, pain, or guilt—so far, the silent staring has been his main expression for any negative feelings. Luckily, Bruce had been able to brief Alfred before they’d landed, so the older man has had time to prepare for their arrival. Unloading the boys is fairly easy: Tim is small enough to be easily carried, while Jason does a good enough job being compliant while Alfred maneuvers him into a wheelchair and then to the car.

It takes a surprising three weeks for the silence to be broken. Jason is, of course, the one who caves first, blowing up in a spectacular fashion when Bruce tells him that he’s not allowed to help with any of the cases he’s working on. There’s a lot of shouting, mostly from Jason, and it ends with Bruce snapping at him that _he is the parent, not Jason._ This goes over as well as can be expected.

By the time that Dick gets back from his mission, it’s been a long four weeks, and Bruce is hoping that his oldest son will be able to bring some peace back to the house. He’s waiting in the cave when Dick pulls in, intending to brief his son on what’s occurred.

“Wow, quite the welcoming committee,” Dick quips, raising an eyebrow at Bruce’s presence. “What’s up?”

Bruce sighs. “I’m happy to see you too. Look, I really don’t want to ruin your first day back, but—“

“What happened? Did The Court come back?”

“No, they didn’t. Listen, it’s not…everyone’s fine now.” Bruce grimaces at the wording. “I mean…okay, so about a month ago now, Jason found out that his mother was not his biological mother. Instead of telling me, he decided to go look for his biological mother on his own. He told Tim, Tim told me, and we followed him. We found his mother in Ethiopia.”

“That’s good,” Dick says, looking puzzled. “So…what happened? She didn’t want custody or—“

Bruce interjects quickly. “No! No, nothing like that. There was, um…well, the Joker had been overseas at the same time as us—I don’t know why. But…I left the boys at the hotel so that I could go take care of the situation. Somehow, the Joker got ahead of me. Jason snuck out that night, I don’t know why, but I guess he went to see his mom; Tim followed him. But…I don’t know what happened, but the Joker was there. Jason got beaten pretty badly and Tim was shot—they’re _fine._ But Sheila—Jason’s mother—she and the Joker didn’t survive: there was an explosion.”

“ _Why the fuck didn’t you call me?”_ Dick looks both furious and betrayed. “ _What the hell?”_

“I was a little busy,” Bruce defends. “Look, I was going to call you, but there was no way to reach you when we got home, and after that…I was a little…preoccupied.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry that you couldn’t remember to _call your kid and let him know that his brothers almost fucking died!_ I’d hate to inconvenience you like that.”

“You know it wasn’t like that—“

“Whatever,” Dick snaps, throwing up his hands. He shoves past Bruce and heads for the stairs.

Bruce frowns and calls after him “Where are you going?”

“To check on my brothers.”

By the time Dick gets upstairs, he’s no longer shaking with anger, but he’s still cursing under his breath, clenching his fists until they ache. He pauses in the study, listening for any sounds. After a second, the familiar jingle of a cartoon theme-song comes floating from the direction of the front living room— _it’s still astounding at times that this house has more than one living room—_ so he heads that way. The sound grows louder as he nears the entrance.

Dick pauses for a second in the doorway, taking in the incredibly familiar tableau of Jason sprawling over the couch. He notes the painful looking bruises on his younger brother’s face, casts on his arm and leg, and the exhausted expression he’s wearing. Dick sighs sympathetically and taps his fist against the doorway.

“Hey, Jaybird. How you feelin’?”

Jason looks up and over at him, clearly surprised. His reaction time is off, Dick notes—it takes him until Dick’s nearly at the couch to answer.

“’M okay. When’d you get back?”

Dick grins and settles gingerly onto the couch next to him, adjusting the blankets so he doesn’t sit on them. “Few minutes ago. Heard you took a trip to Africa earlier this month. How was it—aside from the obvious.” He gestures at Jason’s various injuries.

“’T’was good. Not as many camels in Egypt as they said there’d be.” Jason looks incredibly disappointed. “Hot. Um…how was space?”

“Empty. Really pretty for, like, the first week, but then it gets a little old. But, uh, I had fun, so…”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Y’ need to work on descriptions, big brother. That sucked.”

Dick barely manages to keep from making a big deal out of the fact that Jason just called him “big brother”—it’s taken _years_ just to get to the point where Jason thinks of him as family, and he still gets excited by these references. “Well, I’m the funny one, not the writer, remember? You do the descriptions, I’m just here for the laughs. So…” He picks at the pilling on the blanket’s edge. “You wanna talk about it at all?”

“Not really.”

“’Kay. Hey, where’s the small one?”

An troubled expression flickers across Jason’s face, gone before Dick can identify it. The teen shifts slightly more upright, looking concerned.

“Dunno. Thought he was with Alfred or B. You…didn’t see him on your way in?”

“Well, I can safely say that he’s _not_ with Bruce,” Dick does his absolute best to keep the anger out of his voice. “I take it we’re back to playing hide-and-go-seek?”

“Yeah. He’s not supposed to be runnin’ around at all, neither of us are—apparently you’re not supposed to do anything strenuous after surgery, but…” Jason shrugs. “It’s Tim.”

Dick sighs. “Great. Uh…what surgery?”

“Well, apparently a crowbar smashing into your stomach over and over busts open your innards. Go figure. ‘n then Tim had to go ‘n get a bullet to the stomach—had to take out his spleen, I guess; B’s been a little…tightlipped, I guess.”

“ _Jesus._ ”

“Yeah…don’t think he’s listening right now.” Jason smirks. He frowns a little at the stricken look on Dick’s face. “It’s okay, Dick. I’ve had broken bones before, it’s no big deal. And we’re both young—we heal faster, right? So…we’re good, promise.”

“Okay,” Dick says, internally screaming that _no, it’s not alright._ “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re good. Missed ya, y’know.”

Then, because he knows that _normally_ he’d try to annoy Jason just a little bit, he leans over and plants a kiss on Jason’s forehead. This gets the expected reaction of Jason swatting him away, whining about the theatrical display of affection. Dick cackles and jumps up off the couch.

“Look, you cool if I go check on Tim?”

Jason nods and waves him off. Grinning, Dick walks out, feeling a lot better—he’s still mad, but the knot of worry in his stomach is slowly uncoiling. He detours to check upstairs in the bedrooms, just in case, but they’re unsurprisingly empty. Feeling tired—he just _knows_ this’ll end up with him trekking all over the house—Dick trudges back downstairs. Alfred isn’t in the kitchen, so he starts systematically searching room by room.

After a few minutes of searching through empty, silent rooms, Dick starts humming as he goes, pausing occasionally to listen for any sound that’ll tell him where either the butler or the boy are. He goes through the sitting room—the formal one that they use only for guests—and the real study (not the one with an entrance to the cave), and then the downstairs library. He’s about to give up and resort to shouting when something out of place catches his eye.

Turning around, he squints in the dim light, trying to figure out what’s shadow and what’s not. Giving up, he fumbles for the light switch, calling softly “Tim, you in here?” His fingers finally catch on it, and he flips the lights on, blinking at the sudden light change. “Ah, shit. Ow.”

“Y’ could’ve just left it off.” Tim’s voice is barely audible.

Dick shrugs, relieved to see that the lump he though he saw actually _was_ Tim. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. What’re you doing on the floor in the dark?”

“Wasn’t dark when I came in here.”

“That only answers half the question,” Dick points out, walking over to sit next to Tim. “It’s freezing in here, aren’t you cold?”

“Uh-uh.” Tim shakes his head, wincing a little when he bumps the floor with it. “I couldn’t get back up—my arms were too shaky.”

“Well, why don’t we get you up off the floor?”

Tim looks at him warily. “I don’t wanna go back to the room.”

“Okay. How ‘bout the couch? Can we do that for now?” Dick asks, noting the way Tim says “the room” instead of “my room”, something he hasn’t done in months. “Yeah? Alright, here we go then,” he announces, shoving himself up and scooping Tim up. The couch is stiff and miserable, but it’s definitely an improvement over the floor. “You need to put some weight on, kiddo. How long’ve you been in here?”

“Not long.”

It’s been about a month and a half since he was home, but he’s already recalling how difficult it is to get Tim engaged when he doesn’t want to be.

“So…what’s wrong,” Dick decides to try being direct first. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Tim shakes his head no.

“Okay…well, there’s a reason you’re lying here in an empty room, _in the dark,_ right?”

“M’ head hurts.” Tim doesn’t answer the question, but he’s offering up something, so Dick lets it slide.

“That happens when you sleep on the floor,” Dick remarks, running his fingers through the boy’s hair. “You need a haircut, kiddo. So, wanna hear what I’ve been up to while you’ve been busy?”

Knowing that he won’t get a real response, Dick starts to talk, just sort of chattering about anything and everything that comes to his mind. The tactic seems to work, as it normally does, and he can feel Tim gradually relax. He grins triumphantly, knowing that Tim can’t see him from this angle and keeps going, absently stroking the kid’s hair. After a moment, he notices the heat radiating off the boy. Frowning, he presses his hand against Tim’s forehead.

“Jesus, Tim, you’re burning up!”

The exclamation startles Tim—his eyes snap open and he’s suddenly breathing faster, body tense.

“You can’t stay here, kiddo,” Dick instantly regrets the way he went about this. “I mean, you’re gonna get sick if you don’t let anyone help you. Come on, baby brother, trust me, okay?”

It’s painfully obvious that whatever happened— _Dick would_ kill _to know what’s gone wrong at this point—_ Tim isn’t trusting anyone easily right now. Dick can feel Tim attempting to move away, but it’s clear that the boy can’t really fight him. Tim’s obviously recognized this too, because he’s stopped fighting and gone limp, doing the same thing he’d done when he’d first arrived: he checks out, eyes going blank, not moving unless directed—the perfect Talon. There are two possible courses of action Dick can take right now—he can take advantage of this state and _make_ Tim cooperate, or he can…he can…there’s nothing he can think of.

“Come on, Tim. Don’t do this. Please, baby brother, don’t check out on me here,” Dick’s pretty sure he sounds as pathetic as he’s feeling right now, but he’s too desperate to care. “It’s _okay._ Look at me, Tim. _Look at me._ ” He waits until Tim’s looking in his direction—he _knows_ that Tim’s not actually _looking at him_ , but it’s good enough for now. “Okay, sweetheart, listen—I don’t know what happened, but it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t mean anything. You’re a part of this family, you’re my little brother—Jason’s too—and that’s not something that you can just end, okay? Look man, I know you’re…you’re scared. But…I swear, nothing will change the fact that I love you— _we_ love you. Okay? That’s not going to change, no matter what. Promise.”

Tim’s eyes haven’t clicked back into focus, but he seems a little more _there,_ so Dick will count that as a win. He sighs and, even though he’s pretty sure that you shouldn’t hug people who’ve just had a major operation, he gently pulls the boy into a tight hug. The physical contact always seems to have some sort of grounding effect on Tim, and after a few minutes, it seems to work—he can feel Tim becoming, for lack of a better word, _alive_ again.

For a few minutes, Dick just sits there, feeling the energy returning to Tim’s body and trying to work out the conflicting emotions he feels swirling around in his head. He’s absolutely furious at Bruce still, he’s terrified of whatever happened that’s made Jason so _unhappy_ and turned Tim back into the half-feral Talon that had turned up half a year ago, and he’s _so. Fucking. Tired._ Tired of Bruce acting like he’s still a little kid, tired of having to play _referee_ for Bruce, tired of being expected be the mature one, tired of always being the one to repair the damage after fights, he’s just…tired.

Finally, he sighs and shifts so that he can get up easily. “Okay, buddy. I’m sorry, but you’re burning up here. You need some medicine, and I don’t know what kind, so we’ve got to go find Alfred, okay? He won’t give you anything you don’t need, I promise. Okay...”

Tim’s still pretty limp at first, but after a second, he hesitantly rests his head against Dick’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but Dick knows that the gesture is a sort of acknowledgment—a symbol of no ill-will. He’s just going to hope that some of what he says has sunk in and will be remembered later.

\---

By the time that Bruce feels that both boys are well enough to give an account of what occurred, Jason’s casts have come off. Dick had left after about a week, reminding Bruce that he had a life outside of the family and promising to be in touch. This, unfortunately, had left Bruce to deal with Jason’s increasingly frequent outbursts and Tim’s increasingly frequent silences. But Thursday had passed by pleasantly with almost no fights and more laughter than there’d been in weeks, so Bruce hoped that the good mood would help keep the conversation from spiraling. He waits until dinner has finished, when conversation had wound down, and both boys were ready to be done.

“Boys, I need to talk to you really quick,” Bruce says, trying to avoid sounding too dramatic. “It’s important.”

Jason groans. “Do we have to? I’ve got homework and—“

“It can’t wait any longer. Now look,” he pauses to make eye contact with both boys. “I know it’s been a bit, and I know that we all want to…forget. But there are some things we need to clear up about what happened that night.”

There’s dead silence.

“While you two were…in the hospital, I went to check on the investigation. I needed to make sure that there wasn’t any way that they’d be able to connect the incident to you two. And there wasn’t. But I also took a look at the autopsies, to make sure of who the bodies belonged to. Sheila, as you know, died in the explosion.”

He stops to check their reactions. Jason looks both angry and hurt, while Tim just looks sick. It takes a few seconds for him to steel himself for what he needs to say now.

“The Joker…he was dead _before_ the explosion—a bullet fired into the back of his skull at close range. It was the same gun that was used to shoot Tim, and it was the only ballistic weapon found there. Now, it’s important that I know who…who did it. Not just because the action itself is technically murder, but also because we all know that a line was crossed that night. And no matter how much…” he breaks off for a moment, choking on the words. “No matter how much it is regretted, no matter how much we all wish it had never happened, it _did._ A man was killed,  and there are always repercussions for this.”

Tim is pale and so still that he could be made of marble. Jason is twisting his napkin tighter and tighter, like he’s hoping the action will somehow stop the words. Bruce wants very much to just drop the subject, but he knows that there’s no turning back. He cannot live with himself if he doesn’t ensure that he does what he knows is right.

“I need to know who shot the Joker.”

For a long second, there’s silence. He watches Tim closely, waiting with bated breath, dreading what’s coming. He’s so focused on looking for any sign of guilt that he jumps when Jason speaks.

“I did it. I killed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist!


	8. Shattering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for implied neglect/abuse

_It’ll be okay, it’ll be fine, it’ll be alright. Empty promises, pretty words that don’t mean anything, because in the end, people don’t really know_ how _to make things better. “I’ll fix it” is comforting, but ultimately meaningless, because how do you “fix” something like murder?_

 _Of course, maybe it’s not_ technically _murder if it’s self-defense, but there’d been other options, harder options, yes,_ but still _. There’s no fixing things that happened, he’s known that for years: you cannot change the past, no matter how much you’d like to. There are consequences no matter how much you regret it. His parents learned that, didn’t they? You agree to have a kid for money, and it sounds like a great deal…until the kid’s there, and then there’s second-guessing and regret, but the deal doesn’t change. If you try to break it, you die._

 _Not that he expects to die—Bruce would never do_ that, _obviously (and ironically, since killing people is how they got here), but he knows that there’s more than one way to die. You can die physically, of course. But you can also die without your heart stopping; it’s not as permanent, you can come back from that, sort of, but it’s still death. It’s_ worse _than just dying, because you don’t end, and you can come back…only to die again._

 _It feels like twisting and crushing, not outside, but in your chest. It throbs and_ aches. _And when that stops—years after it starts—you just feel empty and limp. Occasionally it’ll throb again, when you’re reminded of the reason. But as long as you’re dead inside, that’s it. The bad bit comes when you remember and_ feel _again._

 _You can accept a lot of things this way, like the fact that no one cares about you as a person, that you’re just a tool. It hurts at first, great stabbing pangs that radiate everywhere, like you’re falling apart. But that goes away with time;_ you _go away with time. And then it’s just cold and numb and timeless._

 _Until you remember and things hurt again. It hurts and it’s worse, because people try to fix it, saying that it’s over, it’ll be better. The ache is still there, but it doesn’t feel as agonizing. It’s amazing and terrifying, like the moment when you’re mid-air and completely weightless, before the impact. Because_ when _—not_ if— _when it happens again, when you find yourself dying again, it’s twice as bad, because that old pain is still there, only now there’s more, more than you knew existed. And you know the feeling, you can_ feel _the fading, the dying, the numbness coming back. But there’s no way to stop it, not alone, and no one else is ever there._

_He’s at that part—the shattering part, when everything is radiating pain and it’s like he’s drowning but he’s too tired to stop it. And why should he? Because there’s no way to fix this, and he knows exactly what’s going to be lost because of this. It’s not like he deserves to keep any of it—there are simple rules, and he still broke them. Rules are never broken without punishment and repercussions. Ever._

_So there’s consequences now, and there are things to be lost besides physical comfort and well-being. There’d been nothing left before aside from surviving, and that’d been enough, because that didn’t hurt at all really, it was just a desperate instinct to struggle and live. That was it; the only feeling was fear. Even before The Court, there’d been little to lose. But now there’s plenty to lose, little things like warm beds and plenty of food, not being in constant pain, feeling safe. And then there’s not being alone anymore, there’s being able to talk without rehearsing every word or tensing for the backlash, there’s no more aching to be touched or held so much that even blows are welcome._

_All it takes is a bullet to kill all of it. Of course it’ll take a little time before everyone else catches up, before what he did comes out and everything_ actually _ends. But_ he _knows and it’s better to start letting it all go now, so that he can stand and take the consequences without breaking. It’s conditioning, really—he’ll have adjusted to the pain and it’ll just be another throbbing pang to endure while he waits for it to all go numb. Hopefully that’ll happen quickly, because he’s not really sure if he wants to deal with this all again._

 _It’s a familiar process of silencing and withdrawing, cutting ties and pulling back from connections. But the resistance is totally new—this time, people don’t just sit back and let him do what has to be done, they try to stop it. Jason keeps promising that he’ll take care of it, he’ll make sure that everything’s okay, and he means it as much as anyone can and it’s obvious he’ll try if he can. Dick does it too, and in some ways that’s worse, because then it’s not just promises, it’s a constant reminder of the years of loneliness and wishes made and how much it all hurt. How much it_ will _hurt._

 _There’s no avoiding it all though, and it’s really nothing more than he deserves, really. He’s had worse anyway, just not normally from people with good intentions. So he pretends that it’s all okay, and he pretends that it’s not possibly the last time for all of it. He’s_ really good _at pretending, and he almost forgets it himself—isn’t that horrible, to forget taking someone’s life?—and this is why he’s so totally speechless when Bruce actually asks._

 _He means to speak, to confess and accept the consequences. But nothing comes out. He can’t even_ move, _can barely breath. He’s not even sure if he can actually hear what’s being said now—there’s just a ringing blankness in his mind. But, slowly, he starts to move, starts to open his mouth and answer._

_And then Jason speaks first: “I did it. I killed him.”_

_And the world shatters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a thing for onomatopoeia titles right now! Things will pick up again in the next chapter, promise.


	9. On Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce makes a mistake.

It takes two weeks for everything to come to a head. Any reaction from Bruce regarding Jason’s revelation that first evening was cut short by Tim passing out. Bruce still isn’t sure if that’d been because of the stress caused by the discussion or because of the infection that he’d apparently been fighting for days by that point. The resulting drama of the entire ordeal gave Bruce plenty of time to stew over all the implications of what Jason had admitted to.

He’s still working to reconcile the scenario he’d built up in his mind with what actually happened—it wasn’t Tim but _Jason_ who’d been holding the gun, who’d shot a man in the back. The worst part is that he can believe it. He can so _easily_ believe that his sixteen-year-old son, with his bright green eyes and cocky grin, could pull the trigger and take a life. It’s hardly comforting that it was in self-defense—there’s no denying that that’s what it was—because it just means that Jason found a way to justify what he’d done. It’s an area of gray that Bruce will have to make a simple decision on…and then he’ll have to find a way to explain _why_ he made it.

Honestly, the decision is pretty straightforward for Bruce—Jason’s behavior as Robin has gotten increasingly aggressive and violent of late, and then there was the Garzonasa incident. He’d taken Jason’s word that it’d been suicide, but there was still doubt: Jason had been livid, he’d expressed the desire to see the man dead more than once, and he’d been alone with Garzonasa in the minutes leading up to his death. It had been the final straw, and Bruce had suspended Jason from being Robin indefinitely. Now, with this new development, there’s no way that Bruce can, in good conscience, allow Jason to keep the Robin mantle. He’s not going to turn Jason in, obviously, but the boy clearly needs serious help as a normal teenager before his return to vigilantism can be considered at all.

He’s only made the decision tonight though, and he’s well aware that he’s put this off for far too long. So, instead of donning the cowl, he’d headed into the study, where Jason’s been holed up working on late assignments. The boy’s frown of concentration turns swiftly into a scowl of angry defiance when he sees Bruce enter.

“I’m _doing_ my homework, okay?”

Bruce sighs inwardly. “I know. But I need to talk to you for a moment, Jay.”

“What?” Jason nearly snaps. He’s maneuvered subconsciously to have a clear shot of the door. Bruce lets it go.

“It’s about…it’s about the Joker,” Bruce says, entering tentatively. He makes sure to leave an opening for his son, knowing that if Jason feels trapped, the situation will only spiral further. “I’ve been thinking hard about what to do about what happened. I know that you were only defending yourself and your brother, but it doesn’t negate the fact of what happened. You took a man’s life, Jay. And there are consequences—“

“Look, you keep talking about how I ‘took a man’s life’, but that fucking piece of shit deserved it! I mean, how many people has he fucking killed, huh? And what do we do? We lock him up. Time after time, we catch him and we send him to jail so he can get out again in a few months. He has taken _thousands of lives,_ Bruce, and he was _never going to stop._ You know why?” Jason pauses for a millisecond to take a breath. “ _Because he fucking enjoyed it._ He was literally beating me _to death_ and he was laughing the whole time. That bastard thought it was fucking funny that I was screaming in pain and choking on my own blood. He thought it was fucking hilarious to see me trying to fight him. _He deserved to die, and you’re sitting here talking about what I did!?!”_

Bruce raises his voice until it nearly matches Jason’s. “ _That was not for you to decide!_ You _do not_ have the right to decide who should live or die. What you did was just as bad as what he did!”

“Oh, so you think I _fucking enjoyed_ it?”

“That’s not what I meant! Look, clearly there are some underlying things you need to work through, Jason. You’re angry at _everyone,_ and the fact that you’re not remotely sorry for—“

“He would have _killed us!_ ” Jason is shouting now, looking at Bruce with a strange expression on his face. “And then he’d have run off and tortured and killed _more people_ afterwards! I did what _you_ should have done the first time he murdered people, what you should have done after what he did to Barbara! Do you think she’d be upset if she knew that that _monster_ wasn’t going to hurt anyone else? I did what you should have done!”

What Bruce _wants_ to say is that he had reasons for not killing the Joker—that he knew if he did that, he wouldn’t stop there. But what comes out is “Don’t you dare try to use what he did as an excuse! _You_ pulled that trigger, not him. His blood is on _your hands!”_

Jason looks as though he’s been struck. He backs away from Bruce, shaking his head slowly. Then he says “ _Fuck you!_ ” and races out of the room and down the hall.

Bruce stands frozen in the otherwise empty room, the words still echoing in his mind. _His blood is on your hands._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, timeline-wise, this is after The Killing Joke (obviously). Barbara Gordon doesn't become Oracle for a while after her assault and resulting paralysis, and she pretty much cuts off all ties from the Batfamily during that time (depending on which reboot we're talking, of course), so for all intents and purposes in this fic, she's not aware of what's gone down.


	10. See You Later, Alligator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world shatters.

The Manor is filled with the sort of quiet that is reminiscent of a wake—tense, forced silence, noticeable but unmentionable. It’s a vacuum of noise, so much that even the creak of a floorboard sounds impossibly loud. Such a deafening silence conveys a feeling of utter emptiness and desolation, despite the presence of those within. It’s been this way for two months now, ever since the explosive words had been uttered and Jason had run out.

He hadn’t stopped running after that. He hadn’t stopped until he was out of the house and long gone. Perhaps things would have been different if he had only run into Alfred or even Tim. But this had not happened, and it wasn’t until several hours later that Alfred was made aware that there had been a fight at all (Tim wouldn’t hear about it until the following evening, and Dick was out of the loop until that weekend), and by that point, Jason had been long gone for more than three hours. After two weeks of exhaustive searching, it was finally admitted that he had indeed left.

They had all taken it hard. Bruce was, entirely appropriately, blaming himself for creating the fight to begin with, and then for being a terrible parent and not realizing just how much damage he’d done until it was too late to be fixed. Alfred had made it pretty clear that he also felt it was mainly (if not entirely) Bruce’s fault, and had, in an incredibly passive-aggressive manner, let it be known that he was staying _solely_ because he was certain Bruce would cause further damage if he didn’t stay. Dick was of the same mind as Alfred, but was much less subtle about it, resulting in several increasingly nasty fights with Bruce, and had ended up more or less completely severing ties entirely, although he had let Alfred know that he was leaving and told Tim that he could call at any time. For the most part, Tim had stayed out of the fighting, both because the adult had been surprisingly careful to not fight in front of him, and because the entire thing was his fault.   

\---

Tim misses his brothers, especially right now, when the silence is strangling him slowly. It’s a familiar sensation, but one he’d thought that he’d actually left behind. There hadn’t been any silence with Dick and especially Jason around. Even when he wasn’t in the room, Jason had a sort of presence, a lingering sort of energy that filled all the spaces he physically couldn’t. But that’s gone too, and the dead silence had been waiting in the dark to come rushing in and smother any evidence of life left behind.

Silence is contagious, at least to Tim and he’s hesitant to break the quiet. This had kept him alive, but it had also made him feel dead and alone, even Before. It makes it hard to talk at all, makes it nearly impossible to make any sound. Which is why he’s currently hiding in Jason’s room, hoping that maybe some of Jason is still there.

The room looks like it’s been frozen in time, books still stacked on the desk, sweatshirt hanging haphazardly off the back of the chair, shoes laying where they were carelessly kicked off, bedspread slightly crumpled from being sat on. It feels very much like the room is waiting for its occupant to return.

Tim is careful not to disturb anything as he creeps in and sits on the floor, holding his breath as he prays silently for some feeling of comfort. But the room is cold and quiet, and it does little to make Tim feel less suffocated. After a while, he gives up and creeps back out, pausing for a moment to steal the sweatshirt—it’s warm and smells like Jason, and when he puts it on, he can almost pretend that it _is_ Jason giving him a hug, which sort of helps.

It’s far too late for him to wander into the kitchen for a “snack”, his usual excuse for being awake after midnight. So instead, he sneaks down to the cave, alert for any sign of Alfred—he’s not in the mood to talk to anyone, even the understanding butler. Tim had started doing this about a week ago, when he started to feel like he was losing his mind sitting alone in his room while Alfred was busy and Bruce was on patrol. At first, he’d just sit down there, watching the monitors and occasionally using the equipment to practice. But that had gotten old, and he’d started back up old habits.

In the beginning, Tim had just slipped out of the cave in his civvies, borrowing a motorbike. But Alfred had caught him the third night, and, after a long discussion and a lot of bargaining, had agreed to allow Tim to continue, as long as he didn’t engage _anyone_ and he wore the modified suit Alfred made him. The butler had been worried about protection, but Tim had agreed more because he liked the idea of anonymity. It was basically the same design as the Talon uniform, but with the padding and protection that The Court had found unnecessary.

Alfred doesn’t know, or hasn’t said he does, that Tim’s been wearing his Talon hood with the clothes. It’s mostly practicality—it has heat and night vision and a majority of people in the city’s underbelly either believe in or have heard of The Court of Owls and its infamous Talons to even consider coming near one. The first few times he’d tried to put it on, all there was was dark and stifling and _oh God, he’s back at The Court, he’s going to be hurt again._ But he’d managed to conquer the panic attacks little by little, and he’s normally okay now.

It takes seconds to slip into the dark clothes and find his equipment, and he’s out the door in a matter of minutes. He’s still wearing the sweatshirt over the padded clothes and the hood is currently stuffed in his belt so he can see clearly. All that’s left is to find the Bat.

Tim had been eight the first time he’d started following Batman around at night, and if it hadn’t been for The Court, he probably would’ve still been doing it. When he was little, it’d been a way to make himself look forward to waking up each morning, an escape from empty rooms and suffocating silences. He’d started out taking pictures, but the Bat was more interesting to follow, and he’d gotten really into it. After he had worked out who Batman and Robin were, he’d been even more invested, almost obsessed. And now, after almost three full years, he’s amazed at how fast he falls back into the comfortable role.

He catches up to Batman after thirty minutes of wandering around. Now he stays still in the shadows and watches, keeping track of the man’s movements, silently rooting him on in particularly dicey altercations.

It’s not as fun as it used to be, Tim’s quickly noticed. Batman is slipping—he’s grown reckless and careless. If a Talon wanted, it would be so easy to take him out now. From observation, Tim knows that once home, Bruce keeps working on cases, barely resting, ignoring injuries. He’ll stay holed up in the cave until it’s light, then take a shower and go to work, only to repeat the process over again that night.

Tim is not the only one to notice the lack of care—there’s less fear and caution from criminals, who seem to understand that, as long as they’re careful to not end up in a body cast, they’ve got a good chance of hurting the Bat. For Tim, this is terrifying, because he’s not able to help at all, he cannot protect the Bat. He’s so scared that he’ll be a silent audience to the end of Batman.

He is so caught up in these thoughts that he doesn’t see the Bat leave the area, and it’s several moments before he even realizes that he’s crying. And all he does then is scrub at his face and sit in the now-falling rain and shake with the realization that he is totally helpless. Tim would probably sit here for another ten minutes or so before he started to go after Batman. But then there’s someone else on the roof, and he’s definitely more alert, if not particularly interested.

\---

Selina is not stupid. She knows that her on-again-off-again romance with Batman means more to her than she’ll ever own up to. And she knows that it’s foolish to keep tabs on the man like she does. But she can’t help it—he fascinates her, always has. And lately, she’s seen a shift in the way he operates.

It’s frightening to see someone she…cares about slipping up, like he just does not care anymore. She’d heard the whispers and has seen for herself—Robin hasn’t been around in weeks. If Selina were asked to place her bet on what’s changed, she’d say that’s it: Batman lost his little birdie. That would be a shame though, because she’s pretty fond of the newest little sidekick. He’s cocky and sharp and she can hear the lower-Gotham accent slip into his voice when he’s relaxed. In short, Robin is a kid after her own heart, cut from similar cloth, and he’s a pretty good kid all around.

There were other whispers, more recent ones. Nobody in the crime world has forgotten all the rumors about The Court of Owls and Talons being spotted last year, and so the newest whispers, that there’s a Talon around Gotham, following the Bat isn’t something she’d dismiss lightly. But until tonight, she’d not been able to confirm it.

She’d heard the fighting from her apartment, and, against better judgement, she’d slipped into her cat-suit and gone out to see what was up for herself. Ever careful, Selina had opted for a roof several houses down from the action and watched as the Bat took on five gangbangers singlehandedly.

When the fight was about two thirds of the way finished, she’d seen something else though. It’d been a shadow that slipped onto the adjacent roof, disappearing into the dark. But she watched, and eventually she could make out the glass eyes of an honest-to-God _Talon_ on the roof, not thirty feet away. It’s a fascinating thing to see—a creature out of myth and children’s songs sitting, flesh and blood, near you.

After the initial amazement wore off, Selina noticed other things too: he was very small, too small for a man, and aside from the hood, he wasn’t wearing anything resembling a uniform, and he (or she—it could be a woman) had no weapons visible. She relaxes a bit after this, watching the Talon watch the Bat with far more interest. She’s incredibly curious about where this tiny assassin came from, and what it has to do with Batman.

When the fight ends, she expects the Talon to follow the vigilante, but is surprised to see that the person doesn’t move at all. A few moments later, the hood is tugged off, and she has an answer to the size question—the kid can’t be more than twelve—as well as a good view of one very miserable boy. The kid doesn’t so much as glance at her, just stares in the direction Batman went and scrubs at his face half-heartedly.

After a moment of this awkward silence, Selina smoothly rises to her feet and moves towards the assassin, loudly clearing her throat.

“What do _you_ want,” the boy asks without looking over. His jaw clenches and one hand trails down towards his waist, where, presumably, a weapon normally rested.

“Hello to you too,” Selina responds drily. “Are you always this rude to people you meet on roofs?”  
He turns and gives her an unimpressed look, stating drily, “ _Normally_ I just _kill_ the people I meet on roofs.”

“Charming. You gonna kill me too then?”

“…No.”

Selina smirks and hops the gap between the two buildings, smoothly moving from standing to sitting cross-legged next to the boy. “Well, that’s comforting. So, why are you following the Bat?”

“None of your business.”

“Manners, honey. They _do_ matter, you know.”

He sighs. “Okay. _Please_ go away.”

“Well, I guess that’s better,” Selina murmurs, barely refraining from rolling her eyes at the grudging tone. “So, why _are_ you out here?”

The boy shrugs without answering. But after a moment, he takes a deep breath and mutters “He’s getting too reckless.”

“Yeah,” Selina sighs. “He is. So…what does a Talon care about that?”

“’m not a Talon.”

The way he says it keeps her from pressing the issue. Instead she shrugs. “Okay. You want something warm to drink? It’s freezing out here.”

“…’kay.”

\---

This is how, ten minutes later, Selina finds herself sitting in the dining room of her apartment across from a skinny kid wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a Talon hood. The hot cocoa she made sit between them, relatively untouched as steam wafts into the air. The boy fidgets a little, fingers pulling at the hem of his sleeve, eyes darting from his cup to the door, to Selina, and then back to the cup again. After a moment, he tugs the hood all the way off and sets it on the table before reaching for the mug.

“…So…” Selina says after a few seconds. “Your parents know you’re out here like this?”

He shrugs, watching her over the rim of the mug with huge, sad eyes.

“Oh. Well, I hope _someone_ knows you’re out here. Big brother, maybe?” She smiles at the suspicious look she gets for that. “C’mon, kid. I’m not an idiot. You two look a lot alike, and the Bat is so obviously _his_ dad, which would also make him yours, right? Besides, no way Batman lets some random kid out on the streets at night. Speaking of, where _is_ Robin.”

The boy bites his lip and stares fixedly at the steam curling up from his mug with glassy eyes. After a second he half-whispers, “Dunno.”

Selina winces in sympathy. “Sorry, kid. So…why’re you out here?”

“Someone’s gotta make sure he’s okay,” he murmurs, still not meeting her eyes. “He’s not doing it himself.”

“I see. Okay, um, if you’re not a Talon, then _what_ are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where’d you get the outfit then,” Selina asks, indicating the hood. “That’s definitely not a Bat you’re dressing as.”

He shrugs. “Used to be one, but I wasn’t a good Talon. Kept the suit though—‘s got good night vision. He doesn’t want me going out at all, no reason to piss him off more by borrowing someone else’s stuff.”

“Ah. Well, he’s gotta find eventually. What’ll you do then?” She doesn’t bother asking about the whole Talon thing—it’s obvious he’s not going to be _that_ forthcoming.

“Doubt it.” He smirks for a second. “Been following him for years and he never caught on. ‘Sides, he’s not expecting me.”

She nods thoughtfully and sips her own cup of cocoa. “Fair enough. So why’d you let me see you then? I’m not even on your side.”

“He _likes_ you. Trusts you too—why else would he let you get that close? And you’re not a threat; I could take you out in a heartbeat.”

“Well…thanks for not, I guess.” Selina quirks an eyebrow and studies the boy for a moment. “So, you’re what, ten?”

“Twelve, actually.” Then, like most children, he hastily ads, “I’ll be thirteen in a few weeks.”

“And you can ‘take me out’?”

“I _was_ a Talon,” he points out mildly.

“I see.”

\---

The next day passes slowly. Tim is entirely exhausted, but since he has school, he has to stay awake. School is miserable, as usual: his homeroom teacher is pissed because he doesn’t have his full uniform, he’s bored in all his classes because it’s just too easy, lunch sucks because he has to sit alone, and without Jason’s protection, his classmates have no problem making their general disdain for both Bruce Wayne’s choices regarding heirs and Tim in general.

By midafternoon, he’s ready to curl up in a ball and just lay there. His biology teacher seems to notice, because she sends him to the nurse’s office half-way through the period. Tim reluctantly does as he’s told, which turns out to be a good thing—apparently he’s feverish, which means going home early.

Alfred comes to pick him up about thirty minutes after the nurse called. The butler gives him a sympathetic smile as he helps Tim out to the car. Neither of them says a word as they pull out into traffic and start back towards home.

About ten minutes into the drive, Alfred speaks up. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with your nighttime…excursions?”

“…I don’t think so.” Tim starts rolling the window up and down, getting some strange satisfaction out of the whirring noise. “’M not stopping.”

“Of course not,” Alfred responds drily. “I’d never expect that—you’re far too stubborn for that. It’s rather familiar, isn’t it? Regardless, you need to rest. When was the last time you actually slept for a full eight hours? Or had a full meal, for that matter?”

“Fine,” the boy snaps quickly. “One night.”

Alfred doesn’t miss the way he avoids answering either question, but he doesn’t bother pressing the issue. He’s kept count himself: it’s been nearly forty days since the boy has eaten more than a few bites at one time—about the length of time since they’d all returned from Ethiopia, and at least twelve since he last slept for a full night—nearly as long as Jason has been missing. He’s not so blind as to miss the connection, but there’s little to be done for it.

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive, aside from the occasional comment regarding the traffic and road conditions. Tim’s nearly nodded off by the time the car turns into the long drive. But the crunching gravel quickly rouses him and he watches the trees and grounds as they pass by. As they reach the large gate that separates the main estate from the outside world, Alfred coasts the car to a stop.

“I see that the mail has arrived. Master Tim, would you be so kind as to retrieve the envelopes for me?”

Tim shrugs and slips out of the car, appreciating the cool breeze that brushes his hair off his burning forehead. He has to stand on tiptoe to reach inside the box, but he manages and pulls out the various papers inside. As he returns to the car, he flips through the letters, scanning for anything of interest. He’s almost reached the door when a postcard catches his eye. Flipping it over, he’s surprised to see his own name on the back in neat, familiar handwriting. Quietly, Tim slips the card into his pocket before climbing into the vehicle and handing Alfred the rest of the mail. He’s not certain if the man noticed the action, but if he does, he doesn’t comment.

As soon as they reach the door, Tim rushes inside, kicking his shoes off as he goes. He patters up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door with a satisfying thud. After waiting for a moment to make sure he’s not been followed, Tim flops onto the bed and pulls the postcard out. The front has a picture of a cartoon alligator holding up a sign that reads “See you later…” with a map of Florida in the background. He turns it over, scanning for the postmaster stamp: “Orlando, Florida” in red ink. Pursing his lips, he starts reading.

_Tim, I’m ok. U can show B the card, but I’m out of here as soon as I mail this. No records, no cameras, so it’d be a waste of time. But I’m ok, so don’t worry about it. Look, I’m sorry 4 leaving w/o saying bye. I needed some space. I didn’t think, or I would have stopped 2 say bye. Wouldn’t have taken u w/me; u were sick and need 2 chill. It’s not safe out here (no shit). Sorry I’m missing ur bday. I’ll mail u a card when I get the chance. Pls try 2 have a good time w/o me. I’ll write soon  Luv u, little bro. –J P.S.: I h8 writing like this, but it saves space!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, Jason reacted emotionally, not thinking at all, probably in part because he's 16. And even when he does start thinking, he's got enough clarity to realize that taking a sick kid with him wouldn't be a good idea for anyone. So yeah, he's got some regrets, but he's also a stubborn, emotional kid, so he's still running.  
> Decided to add Selina in because I've always thought she was an interesting foil for the Batfam, especially with Bruce and Tim (the Hush story-arc always stands out in my mind). And she's one of those people who sees the dangerous animal and decides to poke it with a stick; y'know, a risk-taker. So she'd totally bring home a baby assassin.


	11. Confessions and Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this while very distracted, so please let me know if you find any errors!

Weeks turn into months and time passes both excrutiatingly slowly and disorientingly fast. Before long, it’s been four months since Jason left, which means it’s also been four months since Dick had last set foot into the Manor or spoken to Bruce. He called Alfred on occasion, normally to ask questions about how to cook things, and he did his best to text Tim regularly, although that seemed a bit futile—the boy was terrible about answering texts and Dick’s really more of an auditory person, so his texts are always kind of awkward.

It’s been a little weird not being in Gotham regularly, but he’s also found it to be kind of…therapeutic, maybe? He enjoys the feeling of freedom that comes with not having Batman always looking over his shoulder, and it’s nice to be able to come up with his own strategies and patrol routes in Bludhaven. It’s also been interesting to adjust to having a steady job as well—in a move that was both totally thought out and also a spur-of-the-moment way to piss Bruce off and make a clean break, he’d enrolled in the police academy. It’d actually been pretty boring most of the time, given his years of experience in not-so-legal crime fighting, but it’d been totally worth it.

Granted, being a cop in a city like Bludhaven is a little like putting a target on one’s back and then taunting the most dangerous person one can find. But that’s part of why Dick chose this city too—someone needs to try and make a difference. Although he’s not entirely sure that his sitting at a desk and doing hours of paperwork for an impounded car is making a difference. Thankfully, he’s got his nights off to level the playing field as Nightwing.

That’s what he’s looking forward to tonight as he signs out and heads towards the car, contemplating the benefits of buying groceries _now_ or waiting until there was literally no food in his apartment. After a second of considering the health implications of eating cereal for the fifth meal in a row, Dick sighs and gives in. He goes to the nearest store and grabs the first dozen things he finds that are in his price range and (hopefully) won’t kill him faster than his lifestyle is.

He's on his way home with a bag of food items in the passenger seat when his phone rings. Startled, Dick nearly swerves into oncoming traffic. Cursing under his breath (mostly out of anger at himself for overreacting), he pulls the car back into his lane and snatches the phone off of the seat.

“Hello,” he says, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder. “This is Dick.”

“Ah, Master Richard…is this a bad time?” Alfred manages to sound both concerned and somehow amused at the same time. “I can call back…”

“Nah, it’s good, Alfie. What’s up?” Dick can’t think of anything off the top of his head that would provoke this call.

“Right. Well, are you busy?”

“Um…no? Just got off work, I’m heading home to get some food before patrol. Why? What’s up?”

Alfred sighs loudly before responding. “I can’t seem to find Master Tim. Again.”

“Great…” Dick refrains from actually groaning. “Where have you looked? Did you check the Drake estate? Sometimes he goes there.”

“Yes, I checked there. I also looked in all the closets, under the beds, and in the cave as well.”

Dick massages his temples tiredly. “Okay. Um…let me get my stuff and head over there. It’ll be an hour, tops.” He fumbles with the bags and the keys as he reaches the door, and then he freezes—the door is unlocked. “Hang on a minute, Alfie. There’s someone inside…”

Trailing off, he sets the bags down and slowly opens the door. For once, the hinges remain silent instead of creaking loudly, and he’s very grateful. Silently, Dick creeps into the room, straining for any sound, any sign of intruders. It’s too dark to see, and after a second, he decides to turn on the light—he’s fully capable of fighting blind, a skill that the intruders will probably lack.

Nothing happens.

Squinting in the light, his eyes quickly adjust to the brightness and he can see almost all of his tiny apartment in one sweeping glance. Even so, it takes him a second to notice the pair of eyes peering at him from over the arm of the couch.

“ _Tim?_ ” Dick frowns and hurries around the couch to crouch down at the boy’s level. He grabs the boy by his shoulders, trying to ascertain whether his brother is hurt or sick or... _anything_ that would explain why he’s sitting here on the couch. “You okay?”

Tim squirms a little and nods. “’M _fine._ ”

“Then why—never mind. Okay, just…stay here for a moment, alright?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tim says almost sarcastically.

Dick squints suspiciously, then nods slowly. He pulls the phone back out of his pocket and heads towards the door to retrieve his groceries. “Hey, you still there?”

“Yes,” Alfred sounds concerned. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. Sorry ‘bout that. So, um, I found Tim.” Dick pauses as he tries to balance the bags and the phone. “He’s okay.”

“Well, that’s a blessing, I suppose. I can come and retrieve him, if you wish.”

Dick considers for a moment before sighing. “No, it’s good. I’ll take the day off and bring him back tomorrow. Um…if that’s cool with Bruce?”

“Considering that Master Bruce has yet to realize Timothy’s absence, I doubt that will be a problem,” Alfred says drily. “Do see if you can convince him to eat something; I doubt he’ll remember.”

“Will do. Um…does he need antibiotics or anything?”

“I imagine that missing one day will cause any real damage.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll text you when we leave tomorrow,” Dick promises, hanging up.

He puts the groceries on the counter and decides to forgo putting away anything beyond the milk for now. Checking the messages on his phone, he walks over and flops down onto the couch, nudging Tim with his foot.

“Hey, you good staying here for the night?”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Okay, Alfred said you had to eat dinner if you want to stay,” Dick lies smoothly. “Pizza okay?”

“Fine.” It’s _not quite_ a whine. “But nothing weird, okay?”

“Deal.”

\---

About an hour later, the two of them are watching a movie, the remnants of the pizza sitting on the coffee table. Dick is practically dying to ask _why_ Tim had decided to make his way nearly two hours out of Gotham and through Bludhaven _without_ telling anyone. But he also knows that asking directly is one of the quickest ways to shut his youngest brother down. So instead, he just sits and watches Tim out of the corner of his eye. The boy looks exhausted, with huge bags under his eyes that are so dark against his too-pale skin that they look like bruises. The way he avoids Dick’s eyes and shies away from contact also tells Dick that whatever it is, Tim feels either guilty or scared about it.

After a moment, Dick clears his throat. “So…how’re you holding up? How was your birthday? I was really sad that I couldn’t make it; I _did_ try to call, y’know.”

“’M fine. I lost my phone. Again.” Tim shifts until Dick can only see his profile. “Bruce isn’t okay. He’s getting too reckless, too violent too. He’s _angry._ ”

“B’s _always_ gone through those phases, Timmy. He’s not angry with you, y’know. He’s just pissed off about Jason.”

Tim is silent for so long that Dick thinks he must have fallen asleep or decided to just ignore him. Sighing, he reaches over, meaning to pat Tim on the shoulder or something like that. But Tim jerks away, a strange look on his face. He stares straight ahead, like he doesn’t even see Dick. After a second, he turns away, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them.

“Jason didn’t do anything.”

Dick frowns slightly. “Tim—“

“ _I_ did it,” Tim mutters into his arms.

“Did…what?” Dick asks, confused.

“I _killed_ him.”

It takes longer than Dick would’ve liked to figure out what Tim’s talking about. But then he gets it and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“But…Jason said—“

“He lied,” Tim spits out bitterly. “For me. Because I was a coward. I was too scared to say anything, and now everyone thinks _he’s_ the murderer.”

Dick winces as the full implications start to hit him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” Tim nods sadly. “So he’s gone because of me. It’s all my fault.”

“No, that’s…that’s not…” Dick fishes for the right words. “Hey, look at me, Timmy. Look at me.” He waits for a moment. “First, you are _not_ a coward. Hell, you’re one of the bravest people I have ever met! You are so strong and you have survived so much. You are _not a coward._ Second, Jason lied because he loves you. He was protecting you, okay? He knew what he was doing, and he made a choice. He chose your wellbeing over his own, because he loves you and wanted to keep you safe. And third, Bruce is just an ass—I love the guy, but he really, truly is a self-righteous, overly-dramatic ass.”

Tim doesn’t look remotely convinced. But he doesn’t shut down like Dick would have expected, so he’ll count it as a win. He can also see the fear still lurking in the boy’s eyes though.

“I’m not gonna tell Bruce. It wasn’t murder,” Dick declares firmly. “There was no way he’d have stopped for anything less. You and Jason would both be dead instead of him if you hadn’t pulled that trigger. _Anyone else_ would have done the same thing; I know I would have. And when Bruce gets over being a sanctimonious dick, he’ll realize that. And it really doesn’t matter _who_ pulled the trigger, because there was nothing _wrong_ with that decision. He doesn’t need to know anything, he just needs to get off his high-horse and start acting like a normal person and not like some sort of holier-than-thou judge.”

This time, Tim doesn’t pull away and lets Dick pull him into a hug. As usual, Dick’s not sure if anything that he’s said has actually gotten through to the kid, but there had been some relief evident in the boy’s face, and that definitely counts for something. Sensing that any more conversation regarding this would be a very stupid thing: Tim’s clearly worn out from the weight of this secret and Dick’s definitely emotionally drained—Dick decides to drop it and turns the volume on the T.V. up, resting his head back against the couch cushion.

It doesn’t take long for Tim to doze off, although Dick wouldn’t quite call it _resting,_ given the amount of twitching and the way the kid’s face is scrunched into a sort of grimace. He idly runs his fingers through the sleeping boy’s hair and mulls over the things they’ve just discussed.

He’s not entirely surprised by the news of Bruce’s spiraling lack of control—he’s stayed in touch with Alfred and Barbara, and both of them have, on more than one occasion (more like every conversation in Barbara’s case) mentioned their concerns regarding Batman’s increasingly erratic behavior. And as far as the business of who shot whom, he’s both surprised and not.

It’d been fairly easy, especially going off of second-hand opinions and accounts only, to imagine Jason losing his already short temper and deciding to end the madman himself. But he also knows Jason well enough to question whether or not the teen would actually do such a thing. Honestly, he had firmly believed Jason had no other choice if he made such a choice. But given the testimonies from both of his brothers, he’d found it a little hard to reconcile that with what Bruce claimed had happened.

Honestly, it makes more sense for Tim to have pulled the trigger: Jason didn’t have the same experience with weapons, Tim had far better aim, and he’d definitely have been faster to gauge the level of danger they were in. That being said, Dick’s totally able to understand _why_ they wouldn’t have wanted Bruce to know, he’s well aware of Bruce’s “ultimatum” regarding Tim’s past behavior. And he knows Jason well enough to have no trouble imagining the boy deciding that lying and playing the scapegoat would be the best way to keep Tim safe.

None of this changes the way he feels about Bruce and his recent decisions, he’s still furious with how Bruce had handled the situation, entirely disgusted with the way he’s putting all the responsibility on the victims, and disappointed with the man’s rigid interpretation and understanding of the ethics and morals he seems to hold more dearly than his own children.

All that’s changed is his understanding of Jason’s actions and Tim’s behaviors. He knows why Jason would choose to take the blame and why he’d ran. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do his best to respect those decisions. The question is _how_ he can do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this should have been posted yesterday, but I literally fell asleep as soon as I sat down on the couch. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed it! Please let me know if there are any errors or mistakes--I wrote this while trying to keep track of four kids and two puppies, which is not ideal for writing cohesive stories.
> 
> Dick is sort of stuck, because on one hand, he wants very much to be an adult with his own life, but on the other, he knows that his family is incredibly dysfunctional and his presence is important in keeping these relationships and people together. It's a shitty position to be in, and he's trying hard to balance the two.


	12. Greetings from Tibet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman needs a Robin.

The drive back to Gotham seems to take forever. After about ten minutes of strained small-talk, which was a lot more like an interrogation than a conversation—“How’s your summer going?” “Fine.” “Make any friends at school?” “No.”—Dick gives up and turns the radio on. By the time they’re about half-way home, he’s so used to the relative silence in the car that he doesn’t fully register Tim’s voice at first.

“What’d you say,” he asks, turning the radio down.

Tim sighs. “I said ‘Batman needs Robin’. It’s like…yin and yang, I guess. Having a partner evens it out.”

“Has anyone told you recently that you’re incredibly cryptic sometimes?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m right. He’s only been this aggressive when he doesn’t have a Robin. So…before _you_ came a long and then again when you guys stopped talking, before Jason started.”

“Okay, I’m gonna pretend it’s not at all disturbing that you’d know that. I mean, were you even _alive_ before Bruce and I met,” Dick mutters, staring intently at the traffic jam he’s about to be a part of.

“It’s not hard to research that sort of thing,” Tim says, annoyance obvious in his tone. “And I _did_ spend a lot of time watching you guys, so I _think_ I’m probably qualified to make some observations.”

Dick snorts. “You were and are totally the world’s tiniest stalker, you know that?”

“I’m still right. He _needs_ someone to balance him out. You used to do it, so you could come back and be Robin again, just ‘til Jason comes back.”

“That’s…not happening,” Dick replies, slightly concerned with how firmly Tim seems to believe that their brother is coming back. “Look, it’s just…it’s, um…Bruce and I are _very_ different people, you know? And I’m not a little kid anymore, I’m not Robin now. It’s just a role, you know, and it’s one that I’ve outgrown. Honestly, there was never supposed to _be_ another Robin, but Bruce went behind my back, and I’m okay with that now. But I’m _not_ going back…I _can’t_ go back like that, nobody can.”

Tim sounds thoroughly disappointed when he says, “Oh.” After that, he seems to drop it and stares out the window. He’s chewing on his lower lip when Dick glances over, a sign that the boy’s very focused on whatever he’s thinking about. Dick’s not sure if that habit’s really better than his habit of picking at his cuticles until they bleed when he’s nervous, but it’s unlikely that Tim would stop even if he pointed it out.

\---

By the time he pulls up to the Manor, Dick’s managed to push the conversation out of his head, and, unfortunately, replaced it with the queasy realization that he’s got to go inside to say “Hi” to Alfred and that may mean talking to Bruce. Sighing, he stops the car and mutters “Let’s go.” He doesn’t wait to see if his brother follows.

Inside, the large house is oppressively silent and empty. Dick suppresses a shudder—it reminds him way too much of a mausoleum (or Tim’s old house, to be honest), and every step seems to echo—although that could just be his imagination. Alfred is down in the cave, restocking the medical bay when Dick and Tim come downstairs. Once they’re down, Tim immediately takes off, disappearing without a trace in the dark and leaving the two men alone.

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick says as cheerfully as he can manage. “How’s it goin’?”

Alfred give him an equally strained smile in return. “Lovely to see you again, Master Richard. I do appreciate your willingness to bring him home for me. How is he?”

“For a kid who just found some way to travel through two of the most dangerous cities on the East coast, _alone,_ he’s fine. Well, as ‘fine’ as he ever is. Kid needs to eat more.”

“I’m well aware of that. Will you be joining us for supper then?”

“Depends. Where’s Bruce?”

“Already on patrol, I’m afraid. He’s been quite focused on this particular case.”

“Focused enough to not notice his kid was missing, obviously,” Dick says with some disgust. “What’s the case?”

“Something to do with Harvey Dent, if I recall correctly,” Alfred replies, not commenting on the rest of the statement. “I was just about to check in with him now…”

The older man walks over to the computer console and begins opening the appropriate programs. A second later, he frowns, typping in a series of commands. Dick cocks his head and comes over.

“What’s up?”

“It would appear that Batman may have run into some sort of trouble. He’s activated his emergency beacon.”

“Okay, do you still have my spare suit?” Dick waits for confirmation. “Great. Send me the details and locations via the mask. I’m heading out now.”

He doesn’t wait for any acknowledgement, trusting the butler’s competence in this situation. Instead, he moves at a quick pace to the lockers and quickly changes into his uniform. As he runs to the motor bay, he nearly bowls Tim over as he comes around a corner.

“Shit, sorry,” Dick says, grabbing hold of the boy’s shirt to steady him. “Okay, look. I gotta go help Bruce, so you’re gonna stay here with Alfred, got it? We should be back soon, it’s just Two-Face. Okay?”

Not really waiting for a response, he keeps going, hopping onto the nearest bike and revving the engine. The he does glance back quickly, giving his little brother a quick wave goodbye. Tim doesn’t wave back, but he does quirk his lip in a sort of half-smile.

\---

The monitors are streaming footage directly from Nightwing’s and Batman’s masks, giving Alfred and Tim a front row seat for what’s happening. And so far, it hasn’t been pretty. Tim’s not sure if the two have stopped bickering once since they left, and it’s quickly becoming obvious that their heads aren’t in the game.

It’s been nearly a half-hour now, and, while they’ve located the warehouse that Two-Face is currently using, they’ve made little progress since then. In fact, they’ve already managed to blow their cover because they’re too busy being angry with each other to pay attention to their usual strategies.

The sound of gunfire is suddenly audible over the speakers, and Tim groans and slumps forward to rest his head against the desktop.

“They’re gonna get hurt,” he mumbles, not looking up. “I mean, it doesn’t matter _how_ you feel about your partner, you gotta work together. Even _I_ know how to do that.”

Alfred hums noncommittally.

“This is stupid!”

“And what are you planning to do about it,” the butler asks drily. “Given the fact that you are here, and they are nearly forty minutes away?”

Tim sighs and sits up. “Robin balances Batman out. And Dick’s not gonna take that role again, so they’re just gonna keep spiraling until someone _dies._ ”

“And?”

“And…um…c’n I borrow some of Jason’s old stuff?”

The butler nods as though he’d been expecting that and indicates the gear he’s already laid out. Tim grins and snatches up the clothes. He ditches the cape for now, because it’ll only throw him off since he’s never worn one before. Some of the pieces are a bit large on him, but they’ll do. Alfred watches silently, occasionally helping him adjust the uniform so that it fits better. Finally, it’s finished, and Tim’s trying to get used to the domino mask—the lack of weight and confinement that the cowl gives is a very strange sensation.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of this,” Alfred asks, pulling Tim’s focus back to the present.

The boy shrugs. “Probably not. C’n I take the bike?”

\---

Nightwing is having a hard time deciding who he’s more pissed off with: Batman, himself, or the idiots with guns who managed to get the jump on them. Granted, he probably would have heard them if he hadn’t been busy telling Batman to stop acting like he was just a sidekick. But then again, Batman should have been paying attention too, and it was his ego that had kept him from listening to Nightwing’s whispered warning. Regardless, now they’re _both_ in trouble.

Currently, they’re pinned down behind a very flimsy desk, hoping that the bullets will miraculously miss them every time. So far, this has been the only luck they’ve got, and he’s pretty sure that this won’t hold. But neither of them can think of a better strategy, given the fact that they’re already backed into a corner, with more than twenty guns firing at them.

He’s just about to not-so-sarcastically ask if Batman has a plan yet when there’s a new sound, and someone shouting, barely audible over the continuing shooting. The bullets start to slow, and they both take the opportunity to dive for better cover, narrowly avoiding being injured. Nightwing steals a quick look over at the area that’s cleared up, and he could swear that he just saw _Robin_ moving between the pillars. He catches Batman’s eye and mouths “What the _fuck_?” The other vigilante shakes his head—he’s just as clueless.

“Great,” Nightwing mutters, moving from cover to smash his fist into the closest man’s face.

After that, the fight moves quickly. Whoever had distracted the men is smart enough to keep it up without losing cover, and Nightwing’s got a growing suspicion…and he’s hoping that he’s wrong. Glancing to check on Batman, he decides to move behind the pillars and work on taking those people out. It takes less than five minutes for him to find their mystery helper.

“Dude, you are _so_ dead when this is over! B is gonna be so pissed!”

Tim spins around for about half a second, just long enough to shrug. “So? At least he’ll be alive to do it.”

“…Good point,” Nightwing mutters, ripping a gun away from one of the thugs. “How did you get the gear without—“

“Oh, Agent A let me borrow them. And one of the bikes. Also, I _may_ have borrowed one of your old bo staffs.” He pauses to use said staff to deftly take out two men at once and then whips it around to hit a third. “None of my gear would work.”

“It’s better than stabbing them, I guess. So…what, you’re Robin now?”

“I _told_ you—“

“ _Right,_ ‘Batman needs Robin’. I remember. I _doubt_ that he’ll see it the same way,” the older vigilante says, glancing around for said man. “You’re gonna need a lot more than that if you want to convince _him_ that this wasn’t a mistake.”

Tim dives to avoid being clubbed with the butt of a gun. “Yeah, I know. ‘Sides, I don’t _wanna_ be Robin, but nobody else wants to!”

Nightwing drops it and focuses on taking out the last man. Once the guy’s down, the vigilantes look around, assessing the situation. There’s nobody in near, so they move cautiously back into the main floor-space. Batman has just finished up as the two enter, and he turns around, clearly about to say something. But his face seems to harden instantly when he sees the boy in the Robin uniform. Tim stares defiantly back, subconsciously slipping into a ready stance.

“Outside. _Now,_ ” Batman orders grimly.

All three of them exit the building. Dick is already trying to come up with something that might defuse the situation. They’re heading towards the Batmobile, the tension nearly palpable, as Bruce finally starts talking.

“What you did tonight was totally out of line. It was reckless, irresponsible, and dangerous! You could’ve been _killed._ What on Earth were you thinking?”

“That you needed help,” Tim replies bluntly. “You need a Robin to keep you from ending up in situations like this! And since he,” he nods at Dick. “wasn’t gonna do it, I had to.”

“You are _not_ Robin,” Bruce says firmly.

Dick clears his throat. “Okay, maybe we need to take a step back here. Um…hey, c’n you go stand over there by those cars for a moment, kiddo?”

This, of course turns the brunt of their father’s anger on him, which was more-or-less what he’d been going for. Tim wanders over to the cars and leans back against one, watching the argument between the two men escalate from not-quite-whispers to raised voices and violent gestures. He sighs and idly scuffs his foot along the ground, tracing cracks in the pavement, eyes wandering away from the men and up to scan the surrounding rooves. He’s not actually expecting to see anything—it’s more habit than anything—so the gleam of moonlight on metal stands out like a beacon.

“Look out!” Tim recognizes the tell-tale shape of a grenade launcher just as it fires. “ _Move!_ ”

Bruce and Dick dive out of the way of the projectile, landing in defensive positions in an effort to avoid being hit by debris. Dick is up first as the smoke settles, coughing and trying to get his bearings. The roof is empty, and he whirls around to check on Tim. The cars are all either destroyed and burning or flipped over, metal strewn across the cement.

“Oh no. Nonononono,” Dick murmurs, racing over. “No. _Tim!_ ”

He can sense Bruce running up behind him, and starts casting around for a place to begin, for _any_ sign that his little brother wasn’t just destroyed with the vehicles. He can hear Bruce cursing quietly, no doubt thinking along the same lines.

“Hey!” Both men jump and whirl around to see Tim standing behind them, filthy and slightly scratched up, but totally alive. “What’re you guys doing?”

Bruce reaches him first, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and looking him over, checking for any obvious injuries. “Are you alright?”

“’M _fine,_ ” Tim says, squirming a little. “Are you? I _said_ ‘move’.”

“Yes, you did,” Bruce says, sighing in relief. “We’re alright, thanks to your warning. That was great timing.”

Tim grins.

\---

After they return to the cave and Alfred checks everyone over, Bruce sends Tim upstairs to go to bed. As soon as he is certain that the boy is really gone and not just hiding to eavesdrop, he turns to confront Alfred and Dick. The two men watch him coolly, though Dick also has a look of defiance that’s all too familiar.

“ _What were you thinking,_ ” Bruce nearly shouts. “Don’t tell me both of you were in on this?”

Dick shrugs. “Well, I didn’t think he’d actually chase after us, but Tim _has_ been watching you for a while now, and he’s been really worried. Honestly, you know that we wouldn’t have made it out of there uninjured if he hadn’t shown up!”

“Alfred?”

“Master Tim’s been watching Batman for years, if you recall, and he’s intelligent enough to understand how it all works,” Alfred says calmly. “The boy knows that your behavior is spiraling dangerously close to self-destruction, sir. I have noticed as well. So yes, I gave him my blessing to act as Robin.”

“You went behind my back,” Bruce says flatly. “I’m not having any more children fighting crime in Gotham, look how it turned out for Jason. And I _do not_ need any assistance, nor do I need—“

“You need to listen to me now!” Alfred’s sharp tone is enough to silence the man. “I have sat by and watched as you attempted to take on the entire city alone, and I have encouraged your endeavors, perhaps more than I should. And I’ve watched as you’ve worked to temper your anger and to guide first Richard and then Jason to do the same. But this, your behaviors now, this is everything that you have condemned, everything that you alienated Master Jason over. You are going to _kill_ yourself if you continue. Master Timothy knows that you require a tempering force, that that is Robin’s purpose. And I, for one, believe he is right. So I would suggest that you let the boy help you, because if you don’t, you _will_ be dead within the next month!”

And with that, the older man turns and walks out of the cave, leaving behind a solemn atmosphere. After a moment, Dick shrugs and follows him, leaving Bruce alone to mull over what’s been said.

\---

Tim didn’t go straight to bed. At first, he’d hoped to listen in on what was being said, but it’d quickly become obvious that he wasn’t going to have much luck. So after a few minutes, he’d wandered into the kitchen for a drink. And the mail was sitting on the table.

Every few weeks since Jason left, he’s gotten a postcard in the mail, and he’s been waiting for the newest one all week. The mail obviously hadn’t been sorted, and he’d been able to shuffle through without leaving any obvious signs. There’d been a postcard in the pile, which he’d pocketed.

He’s heading up to his room when he nearly slams into Dick…and manages to spill most of his drink.

Dick looks at his now wet shirt and grimaces. “Great.”

“’M sorry,” Tim says, because he _is._ “I didn’t…uh, I mean—“

“No big deal,” Dick mutters, pulling the wet part of the shirt away from his skin. “At least it’s not hot, right?” He glances up at Tim. “Thought you were supposed to be in bed already.”

“I was thirsty.”

“Uh-huh. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop or anything either, right?”

“Um…”

Dick chuckles. “Thought so. Okay, come on.”

“Where are we going,” Tim asks, letting himself be guided towards the stairs.

“Well, _you’re_ going to bed now. And I’m gonna find a clean shirt. Want to know what happened?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Okay, well, B threw a fit, and then Alfred chewed him out. Like a lot. It was pretty scary, man.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“No, it was! I mean, he raised his voice and everything. Basically said that Bruce was an idiot and that you were right and he needs to let _someone_ help him. Oh, and he said that we should let you be Robin.” Dick pauses for a moment, taking the completely confused expression on his little brother’s face. “What? You think he was gonna say that you were grounded or something?”

“Well, no. But…but… _I can’t be Robin._ That’s Jason’s job. ‘Nd I’m not…”

Dick stops walking and turns to face him. “Not what? Not good enough? Please. You’re as qualified as both me _and_ Jason were, probably more so. And you’re a _very_ good person, Tim. Robin’s supposed to keep Batman from going too far and keep him in perspective, right? You already do that, kiddo. Now you’ll just have the official title too.”

“But what if Jason comes back?”

“Well…then I guess he’ll need to find a new name. Something tells me he’s probably not gonna want to be Robin anymore anyways. He’s not that much of a kid anymore, y’know? ‘Sides, I can’t think of anyone else he’d want to take over more than you.”

Tim bites his lip and considers this. After a second he nods slowly, because Dick’s probably right about Jason. This seems to be enough for Dick anyway, because he smiles a little and squeezes Tim’s shoulder gently.

“Okay. So…I’m _probably_ gonna end up spending the night. I mean, it’s late and I don’t really wanna drive…”

They finish the walk while Dick just chatters on about nothing in particular. Tim zones out most of it, just enjoying the sensation of being _with_ someone else and the knowledge that Dick plans on staying for a little while longer, _for_ him. He’s almost sad when they reach his room, but at the same time, the anticipation of the newest postcard is so pressing that he’s glad too.

As soon as the door’s shut, he pulls the card out of his pocket and examines it. This one is from Tibet, with the picture of an ornate monastery nestled in a beautiful mountain on it. Grinning, he flips it over and scans the back, just in case there’s any additional information to be found. When he finds none, he sighs and reads the slightly smudged handwriting.

_Greetings from Tibet! So, it turns out that National Geographic pretty much had this place dead on—lots of mountains, monks, and people who look like they r out of pics. The food is good 2. Turns out that I’m not so gr8 at learning Tibetan, but I get by. Wish I had a camera, even tho I’m not as good as u. The monks here dress just like Aang does in The Avatar, which is cool. They don’t do airbending tho. I met some interesting people here, and think I’ve got a plan (finally)! Will write again soon. Pls take care of yourself and be nice to A. He deserves it. Luv, J._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the kids I nanny hooked on Avatar: The Last Airbender, and we just binged all four seasons in a three week period, and now we're on to The Legend of Korra. So I definitely have Avatar on the mind! I've also been practicing my Shoshoni again, so we should be thankful that this is entirely in English, unlike the fic I've been working on, which had a ton of Shoshoni in it. You ever want to see an unnecessarily LONG language, check out the Shoshoni word for "nine"...  
> Anyway, I'm pretty happy that I found a way to keep this story moving while still managing to be fairly true to the canon story line!


	13. Direct Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Bruce isn't willing to let him go out, Tim finds a loophole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: referenced past abuse, canonical violence

Being Robin is _probably_ the most fun he’s ever had…which, Tim is aware, is pretty fucked up in itself. But it _is,_ and he feels a little guilty for that. After all, it _isn’t his title to keep._ It’s Jason’s, and he can’t forget that, even if Dick keeps telling him that it’s not anymore, and Bruce definitely hasn’t forgotten.

The training is easy enough for him—the fact that he’s not going to die if he screws up and that the worse that can happen is a few bruises makes it a lot easier than The Court’s version, which normally ended with him half dead until he mastered it. Not starving helps too, even if Alfred seems to feel that he’s not eating enough. But, despite the fact that he’s done _everything_ he’s been told and that he’s grasped every concept perfectly, the closest he’s come to _doing_ anything since becoming Robin almost two months ago were a few “unofficial patrols” when Dick stops by. But still, it’s more fun than sitting alone at home or being locked up and hurting all the time. It’s probably the closest he’s come to actual freedom in his whole life.

He’s been patient enough to wait for more than two months to go out _officially,_ but he’s already come to the conclusion that Bruce will probably push that day back indefinitely. Which is why he’s sneaking out at night after Batman leaves. This decision is currently giving Tim a stomach ache, but at the same time, he’s starting to go crazy sitting around every night. _Intellectually,_ he knows that the consequences won’t be _that_ bad, probably just him being grounded (which has happened twenty-one times already, it’s not a big deal), but the instincts that have kept him alive this long are equally sure that he should really try to _not_ piss off anyone responsible for him.

Right now, he’s lying on the floor in one of the unused studies, listening to the sounds from the cave floating out through the vent to his left. He’s still not sure if this oversight is intentional or not, but he has absolutely no problem exploiting it. And because he doesn’t want to look suspicious should Alfred find him before he can get out, he’s got his tablet—a gift or “incentive” for him to behave (read: not disrupt) his classes—and a few loose sheets of paper that should hopefully make him seem productive and not suspicious. To be fair, he _is_ working on a project: Dick had bet him ten dollars that he couldn’t get into the Batcave systems from an outside source in under an hour. It took about ten minutes, he’d remembered to record it, and now he’s just poking around in the databases.

Tim has no delusions over how pissed off Bruce will be when he finds out about both the hacking and the sneaking out, but he figures that if he can prove helpful to Batman before that happens, then maybe it’ll help his case. His only other defense here is that he’s been wandering around Gotham at night for more than 4 years, 11 months, and 1 week. That’s over 387,000 hours, and it’s basically about half of his life, so this really isn’t that big of a deal…none of which will actually matter, because he’s tried that argument and all it does is make Bruce’s face go all tense and his eyes go all hard and it’s just not a good idea.

At last, just as he’s starting to feel sore from laying in one position for so long, he hears the sound of the Batmobile revving up and then peeling out of the cave.

“ _Finally,_ ” Tim mutters, pushing himself up and running quietly out of the room. He’s memorized Alfred’s routine enough to predict, with relative accuracy, where the butler should be at any given time. So he knows that he has about 300 seconds before Alfred starts looking for him and an additional 120 seconds before his most recent location is discovered. Which means he has to hurry.

\---

One of the only things he’s been allowed to do since being made the “official” Robin is alter the uniform design. And having spent enough time watching his predecessors, Tim has a pretty good idea of the flaws in previous designs. For example: why the hell were there no pants? So he’d gotten Alfred to help him change things just a little bit. Right now, these alterations are really paying off, because he just overestimated a gap and sort of landed on his knees before skidding to a stop.

Grimacing slightly, he scrambles back up to his feet and continues along, breathing out a few curse words as he goes. A second later, the sound of static crackling in his ear nearly makes him jump—he’d forgotten about the ear piece; it had been one of those insurance sort of choices, just in case he actually needed help. Of course, it’s not so great when he _doesn’t_ need it.

“I do hope you have an excellent reason for this latest excursion,” Alfred says drily.

“…Maybe?” Tim sighs and stops to scan the area. “He’s never gonna let me go out, y’know. Which makes the whole thing seem kinda…pointless.”

For a moment there’s just static, but finally Alfred says, “True, I suppose. We must work on your communication skills though, _Robin._ Making me search the entire estate while you sneak out is hardly an auspicious start to your career. I’d hope you had enough faith in me to share your plans in advance. Do you really think I would impede you from fulfilling a role I advocated for you to have?”

“Sort of. Um, sorry for, y’know, taking off and all that. I, uh, it won’t happen again.”

“It had better not. So, do you have a purpose for tonight’s outing, or is this simply recreation?”

Tim bites his lip for a moment, considering. “Well…I, um, I was going t-to…uh…he s-still hasn’t actually caught Two-Face. ‘Nd since it was kinda my fault, I figured I should, uh…fix it?”

“I see.”

The neutral tone is encouraging. “So…he doesn’t need to know?”

Alfred sighs resignedly. “For the time being. And you, young master, will be back in this home by one, or so help me, there _will_ be consequences.”

“Deal,” Tim says, deciding against complaining that this gives him less than two hours to accomplish anything. “Thanks.”

As soon as he’s relatively sure that Alfred has signed off, the boy breathes out a quiet, “yes!” and continues along, feeling a bit more relaxed. As he gets closer to the Narrows, Robin pauses for a second and considers stopping by to see if Selina is home—he hasn’t seen her since he got the title, and honestly, it’d be nice to be around someone who gets why it’s such a big deal to him (and who isn’t Alfred). But he decides against it, because he has a goal and he wants to get there _before_ he runs out of time. Besides, he can always drop by some other time…assuming he’s ever allowed out again after tonight.

Because he’d spent the past three hours going through the files on the “Bat-puter”—why the hell would anyone let Dick name it that???—he’s got a good idea of where to start looking for Two-Face. There’s a man by the name of Frank Bouer who runs an underground gambling operation out of the basement of the bar he works at, and Two-Face has been known to frequent it. Of course, Robin’s still not sure how he’s going to get into a bar, but at least he’s got a starting point.

Once he’s sitting comfortably on a fire escape in the alley across from the bar, Robin stops to consider his options. Because he’s not wearing his Talon uniform, sneaking into a bar is out of the option (not that it would’ve been easy to get in before anyway). Realistically, he’s too small to really try and intimidate his way in—he’s not Jason either, who always did a good job of it regardless of size—so he can’t just threaten someone into letting him inside. After a moment, it occurs to him that if they’re using the basement, then there’s got to be a way in—public buildings have fire codes, which means ventilation in basements, which also means that there _is_ a way in—he just has to fit into an air duct.

However, through a random stroke of luck, Robin doesn’t ever get around to climbing into an open shaft. He’d located it and had been trying to figure out the best way to fit into the vent with his cape— _would it be possible to just get rid of that too?—_ when there’s a rush of people exiting the bar. He quickly melds into the shadows, peering around the side of the building to watch. He’s surprised to see Two-Face coming out of the doors with his usual entourage of bodyguards, but it takes him less than a second to come up with a new plan: tail them until there’s a safe chance to intercept and then…well, he’s not quite gotten to that point yet.

Because there’s no way he’s actually going to keep up with a car, Robin decides to take advantage of the old-fashioned design of the mob lord’s ride and quickly opens the trunk, slips inside, and closes the hatch. As soon as the car is moving, he very carefully kicks out one of the taillights just enough to create a crack for him to see out of. Then he sits back to watch the road stretch out behind him and waits.

\---

By the time the vehicle comes to a complete stop, Robin is sore and tired of sitting in the trunk. He barely waits for the doors of the car to slam shut before he’s popping the hatch open again and diving out. A quick glance around tells him that this has all gone unnoticed and all of the men are completely focused on whatever it is they’re discussing as they head towards the entrance to a rather nice-looking apartment building. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Robin nimbly climbs up onto the nearest ledge, peering through a window to see the men enter an elevator. He waits for a moment to see what floor the elevator stops at and then starts scaling the building.

This is a skill he’s had years to perfect and it takes him almost no time at all to reach the ninth floor, where the elevator had stopped. Opting to stay outside, he starts moving from window to window, peeking inside until he finally spots Two-Face, now sitting behind an opulent desk, apparently giving some kind of dressing down to two other men in equally nice suits. The bodyguards are nowhere to be seen.

Knowing that this may be the best chance he gets, Robin starts looking for an entrance, checking the other windows on this floor. Finally, he finds a balcony with sliding doors—this really seems like an oversight considering the city—and easily jimmies the lock. Slipping inside, he quickly orients himself. He’s standing in what’s clearly some kind of entertaining space, the sort of fancy room rich people host their parties aiming to impress equally rich guests. It’s a huge space, and he would really like to know how they’ve managed to fit this into an apartment complex, even a fancy one. Quietly, he slips out of the room and heads down a lavishly decorated hall, still wondering bemusedly as to how this all fit onto one floor.

Up ahead, he can see two of the thugs outside a door that they’re clearly supposed to be guarding, but which they’re ignoring in favor of their phones and small talk. They’re easy prey, and Robin can’t quite keep a vicious grin from spreading across his face. Silently, he pulls out the bo staff that he’s claimed, moves into a sprint, and charges the men. A high kick connects first, decapacitating the nearer thug—it’s a little too forceful and there’s a split-second where he’s almost certain that he just broke the guy’s neck—and then a well-aimed swing of the staff sends the other man staggering back. Robin takes advantage of the space this creates and slams his knee into the man’s diaphragm, following up with a calculated blow to the back of the head.

It takes less than 50 seconds for the entire thing to go down. And he’s got them all tied up and totally incapacitated within the next minute. The motions are easy, nearly automatic, with the sole difference being the lack of a blade or other lethal instruments. It’s sort of an out-of-body feeling, standing here after that— _no blood splattered all wet and sticky and no gurgles of men whose minds haven’t quite caught up to the fact that they’re already dead_.

He realizes that he’s been standing there for at least two minutes and quickly shakes the sensation off, turning towards the door. Slowly, he eases the door open, relieved to find that the hinges are well-oiled. Inside the room, he can hear snippets of conversation, mostly centering around some bet or other. Apparently, the animosity has ended while he was distracted, which means that the men will either be much less distracted or more relaxed. Robin figures it’s probably the former, because these men _are_ criminals after all, and Two-Face is incredibly paranoid.

Listening intently, he can hear them moving around the room. Carefully, he peeks in, and can see all three have moved to some armchairs that occupy the far side of the room. There’s the clink of glasses and he sees at least one of them sipping something out of his cup, probably alcohol. Silently, he slides into the room, letting the door shut softly behind him. He moves cautiously, using the shadows as he’s been taught. When he’s reached the darkest corner, he suddenly hesitates because _now what?_

 _Talon can just stab the closest man through the back of the chair, sending the blade in one side and out the other with the squelch of fluid and a slow trickle of blood running down the protruding end of the weapon; follow this up with a brutal slash for whoever reacts first—not a killing blow, but enough to incapacitate—then a quick side step and use the talons, those hidden blades in the gloves themselves, to blind, leaving blood everywhere and freeing the assassin to do what he came to do. But he’s not Talon tonigh_ t.

He doesn’t have the time to come up with anything more solid than _hit one over the head and then try not to die_ before he’s moving. In order to hit anyone, he has to swing the bo staff, and that’s too much motion too fast. It catches the eye of the man on the right, who shouts “look out” and dives from his own chair. The staff connects with its target though, and then Robin’s left with just the other two. Immediately following the shouted warning, Two-Face had very calmly stood up from his chair and swiveled to face the attack, drawing his gun as he did. Thankfully, Robin expected this reaction and dives behind one of the chairs. He can see that the other man has a gun as well, and that’s a problem, because playing chicken is _not_ a good idea _ever._ Reacting quickly, he pulls out a batarang and rolls under the chair, body tensing for what comes next.

As soon as he clears the chair, he’s springing up, slashing the sharp tip of the tool across the man’s wrist. The unexpected pain causes the man to drop his weapon, and Robin uses his inertia to swing around behind the man and out of range. He’s about the finish with this one when there’s a gunshot and blood spraying and something smashes into Robin’s shoulder hard enough to knock him back a step. The man falls to the floor, screaming in agony.

The gun is pointed at Robin now, Two-Face holding it steadily, a mad gleam in his eye. For some reason, Robin is feeling calmer than he had for most of the night— _“You hesitate, you die” and the trigger is pulled and then it feels like he’s on fire inside and he can’t breathe and he can’t fall; strong hands forcing him up, forcing him to look up at the cold, hard eyes and the man’s breath is hot on his face. “You hesitated.”—_ and before the next shot is fired, he’s in motion. He doesn’t charge, because racing a bullet is a good way to end up dead, but he redirects and swings the bo staff with all his might, connecting solidly with Two-Face’s ribs. The man grunts and doubles over, not dropping his gun.

Cursing internally, Robin decides to ditch the staff and moves instead to break the man’s grip, grabbing his thumb and yanking it back, hard. At the same time, he twists the wrist, putting as much pressure into it as he can. This does work and the firearm drops to the floor as Two-Face curses in pain. The man swings his fist, managing to connect with Robin’s stomach. This doesn’t accomplish much besides a dull thud and the blow bouncing harmlessly off of the Kevlar. Robin smirks and shifts his hold into an arm bar, using the leverage to force the man onto the ground. It takes him a lot more effort than he’d like to finally get the man tied up and unarmed. Then there’s the other two who have to be dealt with, which goes decidedly easier. He sort of just left the shot one untied with instructions to keep applying pressure to his wound. Leaning on the arm of a chair, Robin inspects his handiwork, breathing heavily. After a second, he turns the comm back on.

“Hey, um, I…I got him.”

He nearly jumps when Batman’s voice comes over the comm instead of Alfred’s. “Just what do you think you’re doing?!?”

“Shi-uh, hi. Um…I jus’…I-I found um, Two-Face. For you, I m-mean. ‘Cuz I k-kinda let him get away. So…”

“You went out against my _direct order!”_

“…yeah. I…uh, I n-need the police or somethin’ l-like that. Th-they’re all tied up and…”

“ _Who is ‘all tied up’?”_

Tim bites his lip and scowls at Two-Face, who’s been glaring at him since being tied up. The man looks almost amused and it’s really pissing him off. “Um…Harvey Dent, two other guys, and uh, the bodyguards?”

“…Where are you?”

\---

Batman shows up about 600 seconds later, looking furious. He doesn’t say anything as he checks the bindings on each of the men and pats them down. In fact, he doesn’t look directly at Tim for a solid minute, which is fine because Tim is having a hard enough time not blurting out some kind of apology or flinching whenever the man come close as it is. Finally, the vigilante turns, stern expression on his face.

“The GCPD should be here in five minutes. You are not going to be here when they arrive. Agent A will give you directions as to where to go, you will follow those directions _to the letter,_ and you will remain there until I return. Do you understand?”

The boy nods mutely.

“Good.”

\---

By the time Batman shows up at the safehouse, Tim’s managed to get the top half of his uniform off. There’s a massive bruise blossoming on his shoulder and chest, but that seems to be the only injury he’s sustained. The kid shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, subconsciously picking at his cuticles.

“Whose blood is that,” Bruce asks ina fairly calm voice. His rage has mostly dissipated and now he’s just tired.

“Huh?”

“On your face.” Bruce elaborates, heading over to get a clean towel.

“Oh. Um, the guy who got shot’s, I guess.”

“And I take it that the bruise has something to do with that too?”

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, gingerly prodding the discoloration. “The Kevlar is a great idea, by the way. Getting shot sucks.”

Bruce doesn’t have an answer for that and silently hands over the damp towel. Part of him really wants to lecture the boy on just how dangerous this was, but he also knows that that’d be totally pointless. He can recognize that stubborn look in Tim’s eyes and it’s obvious that yes, Tim knows it was a reckless, stupid thing to do, and no, he’s not remotely sorry.

“I didn’t disobey any orders, by the way,” Tim says suddenly, snapping him back into reality.

“What?”

The boy scrubs at his face half-heartedly. “Earlier, you said that I disobeyed your direct orders. Only I didn’t. You never said I couldn’t go out as _Robin_ without you or Dick.”

“That was implied,” Bruce says drily.

“Well you never _said_ it, so…” Tim shrugs. “That’s really on you, y’know.”

“Hnn. Well, consider this to be that statement then. _Do not_ do something like this again.”

“Only if you’re gonna actually let me help.”

There’s a long pause as Bruce considers that. The first thing that comes into his head is that Tim is acting very much like Jason, and look how that turned out. But he also knows that, unlike Jason, Tim’s much more likely to keep doing it, because while Jason was afraid that he’d be kicked out if he screwed up, Tim doesn’t have that sort of fear because in his short life, he’s learned that being well-behaved doesn’t work as insurance. Which just makes it more aggravating, because Bruce doesn’t know if letting the boy get his way is actually a good thing or if that just reinforces the mindset. But he still finds himself saying “Agreed”, because regardless of whether it’s good parenting or not, he’d sooner risk that sort of bad parenting than having a thirteen year old running around unsupervised in Gotham while wearing what basically amounts to a huge target for any criminal with that level of intelligence. And then Tim lights up, looking a lot happier than Bruce has seen him in…forever, honestly. Maybe it’s a good idea after all.

\---

_It’s been three weeks since Jason last wrote._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it's been forever!!! I am SO sorry guys. I kinda let life get away from me and everything happened at once. Anyway, things are finally calming down and I'm actually able to sit down and relax and do shit. Until this month, I was literally spending less than an hour not actively working, studying, or sleeping. But I'm back now! Next update should be some time next week (probably multiple chapters since it'll be Thanksgiving break).


	14. Wins and Losses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce honestly didn't mean to forget.

The thing about Tim being Robin is that it really _really_ stresses Dick out. First off, the last kid to wear the uniform had nearly died and he’s really not happy with how close it had come to losing at least one brother and that it can so easily happen again. Secondly, thirteen seems to have become a lot younger than it’d been when he was that age and he can’t figure out how Bruce had ever dealt with him going out all those years ago and Jason was only little (barely) older and how the hell did anyone _ever_ think this was a good idea? Thirdly, and this is the big one for him, he’s not so confident in Bruce’s mentoring methods right now.

It’s not that he’s thinks Bruce would intentionally put Tim in any kind of danger, it’s more that the guy currently has about two settings right now: constantly pissed off or emotionally distant. And he gets it, Bruce is just trying to deal with Jason’s absence and his part in it, but he’s supposed to be the adult, for fuck’s sake, and _typically_ that would mean trying to model healthier coping methods than shutting down and pretending nothing has happened. Not that there’s anything typical about their family.

And of course, Tim’s not going to call him on it, because in his world there’s nothing wrong with any of that and that’s even worse in a lot of ways because it’s fucked up and how _anyone_ gets to a place where they literally do not expect anything beyond occasional ambivalence is beyond to Dick (he can probably make a good guess when it comes to Tim though). He knows that Alfred is aware of all this too, but seriously, that’s literally all of the people who know this shit and want to fix it (well, Barbara cares about it too, but she’s dealing with her own shit and it’s really not fair to make her any more responsible for all this than she already is).  

Basically, every part of it just makes him feel like he’s about five seconds from having a panic attack. Right now, he’s settling for cursing out other drivers while he inches his way through evening traffic just outside of Gotham. He’d decided to come up for the weekend, since he was temporarily on leave after “falling out a window” (he’d done something stupid as Nightwing and then dove out a window while working a drug bust for his cover) but because it took forever to be released from the hospital, he hadn’t made it out of the city until about one in the afternoon. It’s after five now and he’s still not in Gotham. Finally, the cars in front of him start to inch forward and the exit he needs to take to get to the Manor is just up ahead.

He’s working his way over to the exit lane when his phone rings. Grimacing, he tugs the phone out of his jacket pocket and tries to answer it without taking his eyes off the mass of vehicles he’s in the middle of. It doesn’t work and he has to glance down quickly and tap the icon. On the plus side, he gets to see who’s calling.

“Hey Tim,” Dick says, slamming on the gas to cut in front of some guy in a Subaru. “What’s up?”

“Um, did you get to the Manor yet?”

Dick sighs angrily and comes to a stop yet again. “Nope.”

“Oh. Could you maybe give me a ride? I, uh, Alfred said not to use the buses without telling someone and I don’t have any tokens or anything anyway ‘nd, um…” Tim kind of trails of, like he’s not really sure of where the explanation had been going.

“Okay, _where_ are you and please tell me that _somebody besides me_ knows that you didn’t take off again?”

“Does it count as taking off if I didn’t stay put?”

“Tim, you have literally thirty seconds to tell me where to go or I’m taking the exit to Bristol and you’ll be stuck waiting for Alfred,” Dick snaps irritably. “And yes, it does!”

He can totally picture the expression Tim’s making while he decides whether this is worth it or not. Apparently it is, because the kid says “I was at school, but the doors lock at five, so now I’m at the Starbucks on Polk Boulevard because it’s raining ‘nd I didn’t wanna sit there. Also, Alfred didn’t answer when I called, so…”

“Fantastic,” Dick mutters.

“Sorry. Uh, since I told you, I could just take the bus? I c’n find someone t’ pay for the fare. So I’ll just—”

“I swear to God, kid, if you so much as leave that building, I am totally telling Bruce about you switching the emergency contacts just so I’d cover for you when you skipped out last week!”

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Tim says, apparently not fazed by the threat. “Um, c’n I get a drink and you pay it when you get here? I don’t have any money.”

Dick rolls his eyes and switches lanes again. “Fine. Just…don’t go anywhere.”

\---

Miraculously, Tim’s still sitting there when Dick _finally_ gets there. It’s almost six now, and the traffic has more or less cleared back to the usual crush of vehicles and people vying for space. He’s not in the greatest mood, partially because the drive sucked and he had to park blocks away and walk in the rain and also because there’s nothing about this situation that doesn’t scream “something happened”.

If nothing else, Tim doesn’t say anything while Dick gets himself a drink and pays for both of them (apparently Tim ordered the largest expresso he could, which just… _why?_ ). The kid pretends to be totally focused on his phone, which Dick knows is totally not the case. It takes him a few minutes to thaw out enough to stop being totally pissed at everything.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have caffeine, especially after five,” Dick says conversationally. “That was always the rule for me—no caffeine on school nights and be in bed by ten.”

Tim snorts and takes a huge drink from his own cup before responding. “How’d that work out?”

“Yeah…it didn’t. But still, it’s the principle of the matter, or so I’ve been told.”

“Well, it’s not technically a school night, and last night was really long, and I have homework and patrol tonight, so…” the boy shrugs and basically chugs the rest of his drink.

Dick decides to drop it. “I see you missed the whole ‘school uniform’ memo again. What’s with the ribbon?”

“Oh,” Tim glances down, like he’d forgotten there was a purple ribbon pinned to his shirt. He tugs it off and looks at it. “I, uh, I got an award, so...yeah. There’s a certificate in my backpack, I think.”

“You think? And what for?”

“I _might_ have left it in my locker, I dunno. There was a science fair today, ‘s why I needed a ride.”

“And you…won?” Dick reaches over and tugs the ribbon out of his brother’s hand. It’s got gold lettering on it that says _Gotham Academy 65 th Annual Science Fair Finalist, Gotham Academy. _

“Um…no, not really? I mean, there’s a state fair and then a national convention, so…” he shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Right…so this means you got into the state one then? I didn’t do the science fair stuff after like sixth grade and Jay had something against any form of school participation, so…how does that work?”

“I did a project, they liked it, I got voted to be one of the three students who get to enter the state competition, then they vote and whoever wins goes to nationals,” Tim says slowly, like he’s talking to a little kid.

“Wow,” Dick rolls his eyes and hands the ribbon back. “Thanks, I got that part. But this is awesome! Like, that is really cool. What was your project?”

“Uh, basically how you can use insects ‘nd pollens at crime scenes to determine time of death. Only instead of crime scenes, I had to use other events. Couldn’t figure out how to explain dead bodies to a bunch of school teachers.”

Dick chokes a little on his drink. “What did Bruce think of that? Or your teachers, for that matter?”

“Oh, they already think I’m seriously disturbed.”

“And B?”

Tim purses his lips and picks at the end of the ribbon like he’s trying to undo the seam. “I figured he’d like it since it’s applicable to _other stuff._ ”

“You ‘figured’,” Dick says flatly, because he knows where this is going. “He didn’t help you with it?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Did he make it to the fair at all?”

“He had m-meetings all day today ‘nd…yeah. Um, I normally s-stay after school on Fridays, ‘cuz I’m helping Mr. Sanchez with an experiment right now. S-so…”

The stutter, Dick’s figured out, is a tell that comes out whenever hit little brother is trying to pick words and excuses that won’t upset whoever he’s talking to. It tends to work well enough with Bruce, but he’s not so good at it when he’s talking to Jason or Dick. Probably because neither Tim nor Bruce, to a degree, really don’t get how fucked up some of that logic is; Tim, because that’s pretty much most of his childhood, and Bruce…well, Dick’s still not sure if he lets things go because it’s easier to do than forcing the issue or if it’s because he doesn’t notice the habit.

“Did you let him know it was happening?”

“Yeah. Um, all th’ parents g-got flyers. ‘Nd I asked t-to use the computer for it.” Tim looks confused and a little annoyed. “’S j-just a high school science fair, Dick. Not a big deal.”

Dick sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them and notices that Tim’s gone from picking at the ribbon to picking at his cuticles again, which means it’s definitely time to just end the conversation.

“Okay. Why did you need a ride home? I mean, Alfred knows you stay after school, right?”

“N-normally Bruce picks me up.”

“Then w—y’know what, never mind. It’s getting late. Um, you want a snack or anything before we go,” Dick asks, partly as a peace offering and partly because it’ll be at least an hour before they’ll make it to the Manor. “They’ve got cakepops.”

“No.”  
“’No’ because you’re not hungry, or ‘no’ because you don’t like cakepops?”

Tim wrinkles his nose. “The second one.”

“’Kay, so…what d’you want? And I’m gonna preemptively veto any place we have to go inside to eat; it’s gonna be drive-thru only.”

“I dunno.”

“That’s really not helpful,” Dick says impatiently. “Just pick one. Like, I dunno, what’s your favorite fast food restaurant?”

“Um…” He’s quiet long enough for Dick to get thoroughly annoyed before finally coming up with “I’ve never, um…I mean, I didn’t…”

“Okay, then we’re gonna go with McDonald’s because it’s like a classic and I only have like ten bucks on me. C’mon.”

He grabs Tim’s backpack and heads to the door, Tim trailing behind him.

\---

It actually only takes forty minutes to get home after eating (which took about thirty minutes because Dick had decided that they should go in, partially because the drive-thru speaker was busted and partially because the experience isn’t complete with the weird atmosphere, plastic seats, and gross playland). Once they’d started home, Tim had started telling him all about the science fair and his project before crashing ten minutes later, so he’s had plenty of time to mull things over. Basically, what it comes down to is that he was totally right to worry.

He’s not entirely sure _what_ has changed, but there’s definitely something up, if only because a, there’s always been a very strict policy about not patrolling on school nights, and b, Bruce had pretty much _always_ made it to all school events when Dick was in school and he’d done the same for Jason when he _did_ get involved in something. There’s no doubt in his mind that Bruce loves Tim, but he also knows exactly how Bruce deals with life when he’s hurt—he pushes _everyone_ away. And Tim doesn’t know all this, how could he? He’s been a part of their family for a year and a half, he’d never gotten anything besides distance before, how the hell is he expected to understand that Bruce forgetting both about a science fair _and_ to pick up his son from school isn’t normal and (hopefully) isn’t intentional.

When he parks the car in the garage, Dick’s a little torn between waking Tim up and just letting him sleep. But as soon as he shuts the car off, Tim’s jerking awake, sleepy but totally alert. He starts to fumble for the seat belt, pausing to flip Dick off when he asks if Tim would like help.  He snickers and leaves the boy to deal with it.

\---

Alfred looks relieved when Dick enters the kitchen, which tells him that Alfred is probably aware now that Tim never got picked up from school. He gives the older man a tired grin.

“Hey, Alfie. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was _insane._ Um, Tim’s in the garage trying to get his seatbelt unbuckled.” Noting the confused expression on the butler’s face, he elaborates with “he fell asleep in the car and he wasn’t quite awake enough to use fine motor skills.”

“I see. And I assume that he called you to request transport after I failed to pick up the phone?”

“Yep. If it makes you feel any better, he didn’t take the bus.”

“It does not,” Alfred states. “But I do appreciate the effort, Master Dick. Will either of you be needing supper?”

Dick rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah…I sort of fed us on the way home. Did you know he’d never been to a McDonald’s before? I mean, that’s like a required part of childhood, Alfie! I _had_ to do it. And, uh, he _may_ be addicted to the French fries now, but it’s food, so…?”

“I wouldn’t quite classify it as food, but I suppose it _is_ better than his newest habit.”

“Huh?”

“Coffee,” Alfred says drily.

“Ah. Yeah, he had a huge expresso too. But that’s not my fault, because he was stuck sitting in a Starbucks for more than an hour after walking there in the rain. Which reminds me,” Dick says frowning. “Did you know he had a science fair today?”

“I was. Master Bruce was informed as well. I take it he didn’t attend?”

“That would be correct. Seriously though, what the fu- _heck,_ Alfred? I mean, how long has this been going on, what’s his deal, and why is Tim patrolling on a Thursday night?”

Before Alfred can respond, Tim comes in, dragging his backpack across the floor. He eyes them both suspiciously.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” the boys says defensively.

“Um, no one said you did,” Dick replies, raising an eyebrow. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re way too suspicious for a kid?”

Tim crosses his arms, letting the bag drop all the way. “You’ve got that face you make when I do something and you stopped talking as soon as I got here.”

“Well, since we’re on the subject, perhaps you’d care to explain what happened to your uniform today,” Alfred interjects calmly. “As I recall, you _did_ leave the house wearing the appropriate attire.”

“I…uh, I kinda r-ruined them. ‘Nd I didn’t wanna wear the stupid gym clothes they make you use if you ruin your stuff. These were in my backpack,” Tim says, gesturing at the backpack as though that counts as proof that he’s telling the truth.

Alfred sighs and looks at Tim with a sort of fond exasperation. “I don’t suppose you brought the uniform with you? This is the fifth one you’ve managed to render unwearable and I’d rather not buy another batch quite yet.”

“I left it at school,” Tim mutters, looking down at the baggy t-shirt he’s wearing. “’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, dear boy. Now would you mind kindly putting your belongings in their proper places?” The butler looks pointedly at the backpack.

Sighing, Tim picks the bag up and heads towards the door. He pauses for a second at the threshold and glances back. “Hey, did the mail get delivered yet?”

“Yes. I put it on Master Bruce’s desk. Why do you ask?”

The boy shrugs and turns to leave. “Didn’t wanna have to go out in the rain to get it. Thanks!”

Both men sit in silence until they’re sure he’s out of hearing range. Dick clears his throat and looks bemused.

“ _Five_ uniforms? What’s he doing, putting them in a shredder or something?”

“I’m sure I have no idea. Truth be told, I’m beginning to agree with Master Bruce that giving the school incentive to overlook this particular breech of rules might be far easier than trying to control Timothy’s dress habits.”

“And you thought _I_ was bad,” Dick says, grinning a little. “At least he doesn’t beat up the other kids like Jason.”

Alfred is about to respond when they both hear the front door open and shut. A few seconds later, Bruce comes walking in, thoroughly soaked. He stops short, noting the disapproving expressions on both their faces.

“What?”

“Oh,” Dick says sardonically. “Nothing. We were just wondering if you forgot something. About yea high, dark hair, grey eyes…”

“ _Shit,_ ” Bruce exclaims, realizing what Dick is referring to. “Alfred, I thought you were going to…shit. Where did I put my keys?!?”

Dick is very much inclined to let Bruce drive all the way back and have a minor panic attack when there’s no Tim still sitting outside of the school, even though he knows that that would be totally cruel given Jason’s stunt last spring. The expression on the man’s face conveys enough guilt that he does hesitate to go through with that.

Apparently, Alfred is a lot more mature than this and steps in. “Master Dick was kind enough to pick him up an hour ago. And there’s no need for profanity, Master Bruce. I _would,_ however, be interested in hearing your reasonable explanation for forgetting that you were expected to make sure that your thirteen-year-old son made it home after school, especially given the fact that we discussed it just this morning.”

“Th—that’s good,” Bruce sputters, still looking a little panicked. “I was in meetings non-stop today, Alfred. I really thought you were getting him and it’s not like he called me.” The man whips out his phone to double check this. “I must have gotten so distracted that it slipped my mind.”

“You sure that’s all you forgot,” Dick asks, deciding he might as well go for the full guilt trip. Bruce’s totally blank expression tells him that yeah, he’d forgot. Dick tosses the ribbon to Bruce. “Because I’m pretty sure you were supposed to _be there_ for that.”

Bruce almost looks sick as he inspects the award. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, clearly at a loss for words. Finally, he manages a weak “I thought this was next week.”

“Well, it wasn’t. So to sum it up, not only did you leave your kid to sit outside in the rain _alone,_ but you also managed to forget he had an event, which, by the way, he was really excited about, which I know because he spent at least ten minutes talking about his project and how he’d spent like a month working on it. Again, by himself.”

“What do you want me to say, Dick? I made a mistake,” Bruce says, apparently deciding that getting angry back is a good idea (it’s really not). “It’s not like I intentionally forgot. He’s thirteen, not five, he knows that people make mistakes!”

Dick raises his voice to match Bruce’s. “You sure he knows that it’s a mistake? Because from what I heard, he didn’t know that you were supposed to be coming at all. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if you were really going to pick him up this time, that’s exactly how he put it—‘this time’. How do you expect him to know this was a mistake? He’s not going to believe you, you know!”

And Bruce honestly doesn’t have an answer.

\---

The entire thing burns away in Bruce’s mind until he gives up on focusing on the case he’s been working on all week. He’s torn on what to do because everything Dick said was right, even if he hadn’t (probably wouldn’t) tell his oldest son so. The indecision is killing him though—he knows he should just apologize to Tim and explain what happened and he knows that the boy will say that it’s all fine and not a big deal, but Bruce also knows that he’ll get this response no matter how grievous the mistake—his youngest child has literally tried to convince him that it was no big deal that he was missing a rather vital organ—and he doesn’t want that kind of lip service, because he (desperately) wants Tim to believe that life is different in this home, in this family.

And that, he knows, is what it boils down to: Tim still doesn’t fully trust any of them. Sure, he’s literally put his life in their hands, and yes, he has gotten a lot better about asking for help, but when it comes down to anything else: sickness, hunger, nightmares, trouble in school, Tim does not actually expect any help. Hell, he doesn’t even expect Bruce to come home every night— _Bruce,_ not Batman—or, apparently, to pick him up from school every time and he always looks surprised and more than a little relieved each time. It’s the same with any kind of physical affection—he always seems surprised to receive it and, on the rare occasions when he initiates it, it’s entirely too obvious that he doesn’t fully expect a positive reaction.

Bruce is pretty sure that some of this is wholly the Court’s doing, such as the reluctance to admit any weakness, but it doesn’t account for everything. For instance, he highly doubts that Tim would _ever_ have even considered turning to anyone in the Court for comfort. And he’s gathered from off-hand comments that Jack and Janet had been known to often leave for a meeting or dinner and simply choose not to return afterwards (they’d also had no reservations about packing up and leaving in the middle of the night) without informing anyone, including their son. Bruce honestly can’t imagine what it must feel like to go to bed never knowing if you’d wake up to an empty house the next day. Or to wait for hours before realizing that you’ve been forgotten and left behind by the people you should be able to trust the most.

The more Bruce has learned about the lives of his younger sons—Dick’s parents had been wonderful people and Bruce is probably always going to feel sorry that he’s such a poor substitute—the more he appreciates his own childhood. Even though it had been brief, he had never doubted that his parents had loved him, and the time they’d spent with him are still some of his most treasured memories. Of course, intellectually he’d known that not everyone was so lucky, but it had really hit home when Jason had come to live with him, and now again with Tim. Knowing that such things happen takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your kid talking about being beaten, or starving, or being neglected; it’s suddenly personal and it’s totally agonizing to think about his kids hurting like that. And right now, he’s the one who’s caused pain.

\---

By the time Bruce has reached the door to Tim’s room, he’s almost managed to talk himself out of trying to apologize. But the knowledge that, if nothing else, he definitely needs to make amends for making his son wait in the rain for the better part of an hour. (He also should check and make sure the kid feels okay, given the combination of freezing rain and a compromised immune system.) So he forces himself to knock and, after a few seconds with no answer, gently pushes the door open.

Tim is laying on his back, head hanging off the side of the bed, earbuds in. The headphones, Bruce notes, have become a sort of passive-aggressive defense, although he’s 98% certain Tim is fully aware of what’s going on despite them. The boy cracks one eye open and eyes him warily before shifting slightly to the side. Bruce takes that as a sort of not-quite invitation to sit down next to Tim.

After a moment, Tim tugs one earbud out. “I didn’t mean to ruin it this time.”

“You’ve lost me,” Bruce says, trying to figure out exactly what “it” is in this instance.

“The uniform. I d-didn’t…um…it was an accident. S-so…” the boy trails off, frowning a little at the expression on Bruce’s face. “W-what?”

“I…honestly didn’t know you’d done that. How’d it happen this time?”

“Was an a-accident.”

Bruce sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Well, I imagine Alfred’s already given you the lecture. So we’re just gonna chalk that up as a loss and move on.  Anyway…I, uh, I heard that you won the science fair today?”

“I didn’t _win,_ ” Tim says exasperatedly. “There were _two other people._ ‘Sides, it’s a high school science fair, n-not a freaking Nobel Prize or something.”

“Okay…” He’s pretty sure that Tim’s downplaying it so that Bruce doesn’t feel bad for missing it. “Well, either way, I’m very sorry that I wasn’t there, Tim. I got distracted and forgot and that was unfair to you and I apologize.”

Tim rolls over onto his stomach and sits up. His face has gone blank, but Bruce is pretty good now at telling when the boy is upset (his eyes show what it is his face is hiding) versus when he’s legitimately checked out mentally (dead, lifeless eyes; there’s a terrible vacancy there, like he’s some sort of living corpse), so he knows what to expect in this moment.

Before he can say anything though, Tim blurts out, “Dick ‘nd Alfred made you come apologize, didn’t they?”

“N-.”

“I _heard_ you guys, y’know. S-so…’nd ‘s not fair! You said you wouldn’t!”

“Said I wouldn’t what, Tim? And what’s not fair? You’ve lost me.”

“ _Lie,_ ” Tim snaps, crossing his arms. The way he does it right now makes it more like he’s hugging himself than being defiant. “You _promised_ not to lie. But I just heard you ‘nd…you promised.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word.

“I’m not… just…” Bruce sighs. “I’m not lying. I mean, yes, they both felt that you deserved an apology, which you do. But _I_ decided to, because they were right, and what happened tonight was not okay. It’s not a lie—I messed up, Tim. I was selfish and irresponsible and because of that, I missed seeing my son compete in a science fair. And I am _so sorry_ for that.”

Tim looks like he’s almost ready to start crying, but instead he shrugs and says “Okay” in a small, breathless sort of voice.

Bruce doesn’t really believe that it _is_ okay, but there’s not much else to be said. While he tries to think of what he should do, he carefully wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders and pulls him into a half-hug. As he expects, Tim goes stiff for a few seconds before leaning into the embrace. They sit in silence like this for a few minutes.

Finally, Bruce gently squeezes the boy and loosens his embrace to look at him. “So. What was this _winning_ experiment on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's been YEARS since I was in a science fair, but the process I described is more or less how it works in my state. Of course, here it's District and then State, because we're the second least populated state in America. But I figured that a school for super-rich people would have higher stakes for that sort of shit. As far as Tim's experiment goes, I actually did that one for my final science fair; no dead people, but I used several dead animals and studied the stages of decay and insects for like three months--I SWEAR that they were dead when I found them though! Yeah, I was a creepy kid. The science is super interesting though and ya'll should totally check it out!  
> Anyway, I felt like we needed some fluff, so this chapter and the next will focus more on normal life. Oh, if anyone's questioning how Bruce forgot to pick up his kid, please know that my mother once drove to the store and then all the way home before realizing that the reason she'd left the house to begin with was to pick me up from school.


	15. Like Some Kind of Country Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody in the Wayne family likes parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied/referenced child abuse and sexual assault

Dick wakes up with what feels like a hangover but is probably just the product of more sleep than he’s used to and the very broken humerus in his left arm, which he’d really neglected yesterday. Grimacing, he looks around, suddenly remembering that he’s in the Manor, not his apartment. That, of course, explains the quiet and the fact that he didn’t knock over the leaning tower of used dishes that normally resides on his bedside table. It’s his room—not the room he’d grown up in, they’d moved Tim in there after That Night—so he has little trouble finding himself a sweatshirt. Unfortunately, he has a much harder time trying to wriggle into the hoodie. After his arm and shoulder are officially on fire from the effort, he gives up on it—it’s not like he hasn’t wandered around the Manor in a lot less than sweatpants and a t-shirt.

He finds his phone before heading into the hall, using it to check the time (it’s nearly ten o’clock in the morning) as he trudges down to the kitchen. As soon as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he slows to a halt, because there are people everywhere. It takes him a moment to recall that there’s a charity ball tonight, which he’d been informed of last night, and Alfred usually brings in extra staff to help with big functions like this.

Finally, he manages to slip into the kitchen, which smells amazing and is surprisingly quiet compared to the mass of people outside. Alfred glances at him from across the room, where he’s doing something on the stovetop.

“Good morning, Master Dick. There are icepacks in the freezer, I’d recommend getting one. Then you may join Young Master Timothy for pancakes.” He indicates the corner of the room where Tim is sitting at the small table, watching them while he eats.

Dick gets his ice pack and flops into the empty chair, nearly overbalancing and smacking his knee into the table. Nothing actually spills and he manages to right the chair and sit down properly.

Tim looks entertained as he slides an empty plate over. “Here. You look like crap.”

“Thanks,” Dick grunts, serving himself some pancakes. “It’s nice to see you too.”

The boy shrugs and goes back to whatever he’s doing—mashing the pancakes into the syrup, maybe?—still looking way too amused. Dick debates tossing a piece of pancake at him, but changes his mind after a sharp glare from Alfred. Sighing, he picks up his fork, glancing at Tim as he does so.

“Are you supposed to be running around in your work-out clothes?”

“Are you supposed to be wearing a sling right now,” Tim counters drily. “’Nd I’m goin’ back down in a minute.”

Dick raises an eyebrow. “Touché. How are you not cold though? And _what_ is your deal with socks? I mean, you _do_ own some.”

“You don’t wear socks when sparring.”

“Yeah, because that makes total sense for the rest of the day too. It’s a little chilly down there for sweats and an undershirt, isn’t it?”

Tim shrugs, looking suspiciously at his food, either because he’s avoiding the answer or because he caught the stern look Alfred was giving him. Smiling slightly, Dick turns his attention back to his own plate, glancing up occasionally to observe his younger brother. It’s not something he normally gets the chance to do—it’s rare for Tim to have his guard down, rarer still for him to be healthy at the same time—and there’s no way Dick’s going to miss this chance to watch _Tim_ ; not the trauma or damage, just Tim, his goofy little brother who loves bad sci-fi and programming, hates school uniforms, and is way too smart for his own good.

One of the first things that strikes him is how _young_ his brother is. Of course, Tim is small, the product of both genetics and poor nutrition, but that’s not age, it’s the round face and the gangly limbs and the fact that he still has baby teeth. It’s disconcerting to see other things in contrast to this though: his eyes are far too old for that face, his body is far too still for a child, and everywhere there are scars, interrupting the soft edges as they trace out untold stories and experiences that do not belong with children.

There’s more present things too, things that are totally innocent (the things Dick wants to memorize), like the way Tim cocks his head to the side whenever he’s thinking. There’s the constant collections of bruises—not the dark, massive ones from broken bones, just the small kind that you get from running into things, from not paying attention to what you’re doing. Or how Tim switches hands without thinking, passing the fork left to right and back so he can grab his cup or shove his too-long hair out of his eyes. There’s the way he presses his lips into a thin line when he squints. There are dozens of other things too, all of them making up a whole person.

“What are you doing?” Tim is staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Huh?”

“What. Are. You. Doing.” The tone his brother is using is decidedly annoyed. “You’ve been sitting there staring for like five minutes now, weirdo.”

Dick shrugs and lets it go. “Trying to figure out how you got that nasty bruise on your shoulder there.”

“Uh, I got shot. Sort of.”

“How do you ‘sort of’ do something like that?”

Sighing, Tim uses his free hand to poke at the now-fading bruise. “Kevlar. And it’s not that bad—you should have seen it a week ago.” He sounds decidedly pleased with himself. “What’d _you_ do to your arm?”

“Well,” now it’s Dick’s turn to understate things. “Y’know how bones aren’t made to twist around? I tried it. Definitely an experience you should skip if possible. So, just out of curiosity, how are we explaining _that_ to any inquisitive staff members this morning?”

Before Tim can give what’s most likely to be a sarcastic answer, Alfred responds from the stove. “We’ll all be making ourselves presentable as soon as breakfast is finished. Master Dick, would you be so kind as to assist your brother in locating the proper attire?”

Tim groans and mutters something like “I can dress myself” at the same moment that Dick sort of whines “Do I have to?” They both stop protesting the moment Alfred suggests the alternative of assisting him in the kitchen for the day. Dick stares at his orange juice grumpily while Tim slumps in his chair.

“Since you’ve both finished consuming far too much sugar, I’d suggest getting started on the task immediately,” Alfred adds after a moment. “Before I come to my senses and require you to clear the table and wash the dishes.”

Neither of them stick around long enough to see if the threat is real or not.

\---

The thing about galas and balls in generals is that Dick pretty much hates them. Actually, he’s almost positive that _everyone_ in his family hates them—Bruce is notorious for making up excuses to avoid attending these things and Jason was never one to be quiet when he didn’t like something. Dick’s not so sure about Alfred’s stance, but he’s pretty sure that the man would be more than happy without having to corralle a bunch of uncooperative people into suits and constantly remind them to be polite to people even he despises. And given the fact that Tim seems to just not like large gatherings in general, it’s probably safe to assume that he doesn’t want anything to do with these functions.

Unfortunately, these sort of things are kind of the downside of being rich, and Dick’s just grateful that it’s not _his_ money. The lengths Bruce goes through to keep up the play-boy billionaire appearance are insane, and honestly, Dick has a hard enough time just keeping his day and night lives separate. Like now, for instance, he’s trying very hard to figure out a way to put on dress clothes with a full-arm cast. So far he’s only managed to tweak it enough to send pain shooting through his arm. It’s starting to get to the point where he’s debating cutting the sleeve off, and the main reason he hasn’t done it yet, aside from Alfred’s wrath, is that that had been Tim’s (only) helpful suggestion and he’s more than a little annoyed with his brother right now. Plus, since he’d made a big deal about Tim not messing up his own clothes, it’d be a bit hypocritical (and he’d never hear the end of it).

“Maybe you can wear a t-shirt,” Tim suggests, sounding bored. He’s been sitting on Dick’s bed for most of this struggle, apparently finding it more entertaining than any of the other things he could be doing. “Or something stretchy?”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna— _ah fuck—_ not gonna happen! I’ve tried that before,” Dick sucks in his breath as he moves his arm again, trying to get a better angle. “And I already asked if I could just stay upstairs all night.”

“That’s an option?”

Dick pauses long enough to shoot his younger brother a sour look. “Apparently not, since I’m trying to put this friggin’ shirt on. Alfred said so. I guess he thinks I’ll keep you from getting into trouble, which is ridiculous on a number of levels.”

“As ridiculous as this?” Tim gestures at the shirt Dick’s mangling.

“Pretty much.”

“You _could_ just cut it off,” the boy says, sounding annoyed. “It’d be easier. And less painful.”

“I don’t want to have to sew it back on later.” Dick’s voice is muffled as he tries to pull the shirt over his head. “ _Ow!_ This thing went on just fine…Oh, come on!” This last part comes when there’s the very audible sound of seams ripping.

Tim snickers. “You didn’t undo all the buttons. Want help? ‘M pretty sure Alfred’s not _too_ busy.”

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

“It’s already ruined. Just unbutton the thing and cut the sleeve off.”

“ _Fine,”_ Dick groans. “Go find scissors. And _do not_ tell Alfred.”

“Or what,” Tim says with disinterest. Dick can hear him get off the bed and walk out of the room. 

By the time he comes back with scissors, Dick’s managed to get the shirt off and is ruefully examining the tear he’s created. Tim tosses the scissors at him, not looking remotely sympathetic.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to throw scissors,” Dick grouses, trying very hard to keep going along the seam. “Or run with them?”

“No?”

“Pretty sure they teach that in, like, Kindergarten.”

“I didn’t _go_ to Kindergarten. And anyway, I wasn’t ‘running’.”

“Sure,” Dick mutters trying the shirt again. It works, more or less. “Hand me that jacket.”

Tim doesn’t exactly _hand_ over the jacket, instead sort of lobbing it in the general direction of Dick’s outstretched hand. By this point, any fondness Dick had felt this morning is wearing off fast, replaced with that sort of annoyance that he normally reserves for Jason when he’s being a little shit. He grabs the jacket of the ground roughly, jamming it on over the cast and moving briskly towards the door.

\---

By around four o’clock, all of Dick’s anger has more or less faded, although that may be more due to the fact that he’s managed to pretty much avoid Tim all afternoon than to anything else. He’s not entirely sure _why_ the kid is being a brat, but he’s a little too short on patience to want to deal with it. Besides, he’s pretty sure that’s supposed to be Bruce’s job, not that he’s seen much of the man all day—Bruce has spent a majority of his time sequestered in his office, trying to catch up on whatever it was that had kept him so busy the previous night.

So far the only redeeming feature of this whole event is that it’s an early evening affair, not one of those late night parties that seem to go on for _hours._ Guests started arriving about an hour ago, forcing Bruce to emerge from his paperwork and giving Dick a good excuse for not spending too much time putting up with his little brother, which he knows sounds terrible, but still.

At the moment, he’s found himself a decent spot to go unnoticed with actually hiding from anyone. Granted, the potted plant he’s by is obstructing part of the room, but it’s worth it to avoid unnecessary interactions with people he _really_ doesn’t like. And he has a great view of Bruce interacting with an overly-friendly man who may or may not be drunk already. Grinning slightly, Dick shifts to find a more comfortable spot on the wall.

This, unfortunately attracts Bruce’s attention, and the man makes a nearly imperceptible gesture for Dick to come over. Groaning mentally, he pushes off the wall and saunters over, plastering a fake smile on his face. As soon as he’s at a reasonable distance, Bruce excuses himself and comes over, letting the friendly façade drop momentarily.

“Everything alright?”

Dick shrugs. “My arm feels like it’s on fire, the cast itches, I hate like ninety percent of these people, but yeah, other than that.”

“Great attitude,” Bruce comments drily, not actually contradicting any of the complaints. “Where’s your brother?”

“Presumably somewhere in the house?” He sighs a little at the sharp glance from his father. “I’m not sure. Want me to hunt him down?”

“Please. Unless, of course, you’d rather chat with Mr. Douglas over there,” the older man says acerbically, gesturing towards the man he’d been conversing with.

“No thanks,” Dick mutters, scanning the room.

He’s well aware that there’s pretty much no way he’s gonna just spot the boy without actually moving. There’s a lot of people and Tim is small enough to slip through the crowd unnoticed. This may be a good trait for Robin, but it’s not so great right now when Dick needs to find him. Sighing, he starts making his way through the crush of people as unimpeded as possible—not an easy feat in this kind of social setting. Finally, he spots the kid, which is both good and not-so-good.

The good news is that he’s found his little brother without too much work. The bad news is that there’s about to be trouble. There are few people more irritating or downright awful than the Gotham elite while buzzed, and of them, the one that Dick cannot stand more than most is Ms. Angelina Dumas. The woman is young enough to think she stands a chance of marrying her way into the Wayne family, but old enough to make it creepy. In an attempt to ingratiate herself to Bruce, she’s always had a habit of trying to kiss up to his kids. Dick had found it entertaining and enjoyed playing her with the cute orphan routine. Jason had _basically_ told her to fuck off, and (after apologizing when forced) had made every possible effort to avoid the woman. And right now, Tim looks like he’s a lot more likely to follow along those lines than to play nice.

She’s clearly trying to converse with him in that condescending way of hers, while every single fiber of Tim’s being seems ready to either lash out or make a break for it. Dick starts shoving his way through the crowd, hoping to avert the crisis. But he’s still only half way there when it happens. Apparently oblivious (and definitely tipsy), the woman reaches forward like she’s trying to adjust Tim’s collar and when she does, the boy stiffens like he’s been shocked. Dick breaks into a sort of jog, but he’s not fast enough.

Tim jumps back, shouting “Don’t fucking touch me!” at the unsuspecting woman. He’s loud enough where more than a few people stop talking to turn and stare. Dick’s trying to remember if he’s ever heard Tim shout before, but it doesn’t really matter, because there are way more important things to worry about now.

He reaches the scene, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Hey, hey, hey! Okay, let’s just…let’s just calm down here.”

Without thinking, he reaches over to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, hoping to calm him down.

“Don’t touch me!” Tim jerks free and starts backing away from both of them. “Don’t…”

Dick’s not sure if he actually moves toward the boy or he just thinks about it, but Tim bolts then, the crowd that’s gathered parting to let him through like some sort of movie scene.

“Shit.” Dick turns to Ms. Dumas. “I am _so_ sorry about that, Angelina.”

Her expression shifts from confused to sympathetic—she can play a part just as well as Dick—but her voice is less empathy and more distaste. “Oh, don’t worry too much about it. I suppose one should expect as much from someone with his, ahem, background.”

And now Dick’s not sorry at all. He’s well aware that she’s just referring to the cover story that had been created—the Drakes had gotten involved with shady people during their travels and died as a result, their son becoming a victim of human trafficking, wasn’t it sad?—but it doesn’t really matter. Because how _dare_ she come in and act like she’s so much better than his brother, as though any of his behavior was just petty and unwarranted, and _how dare she say that to Dick?_ Her saying that to him is bad enough, but she also said it loudly and publicly, as though it’s a widely held opinion (and he’s beginning to think it may be, because no one else seems surprised or scandalized by it).

“…never know _what_ they’ll do,” Ms. Dumas continues, apparently thinking that Dick’s silence is some kind of invitation to keep talking. “So many of them end up as criminals too. I mean, it’s as though they’ve got no morality, it’s just—”

“Well, I’ll just take your word for it,” Dick interjects smoothly. “Seeing as how involved your family was involved in that nasty scandal last year.”

“Well! How d—”

“How old were those girls your nephew was pimping out? Fourteen, fifteen years old?”

Before the situation can degrade any further, Bruce comes over and puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder, squeezing not-so-gently. He leans over and calmly whispers “I’ll handle this, go cool off.” And then he’s got the whole Brucie act going, saying some bullshit about kids these days and long weeks. Dick doesn’t stick around to listen and makes as quick an exit as he can.

He’s fuming by the time he finally gets into the “off-limits” part of the house, the part that guests _never_ get to see. It’s blessedly quiet here, and totally empty. Dick briefly considers looking for Tim, but decides against that pretty quickly. He’s far too angry right now to do anything helpful.

\---

The level on which Tim has fucked up is probably a new personal record for bad things he’s done in the past year and a half. Well, maybe the second highest, because he _did_ kill the Joker and that’s probably worse, even if nobody but Jason and Dick know about that. But yeah, it’s definitely one of the worst. And again, he’s too much of a coward to own up, which is why he’s hiding. Again.

He’s sitting in the back end of the garage, in this space between a huge toolbox and the corner. It’s really cold in here, especially with the cement on one side and a metal panel on the other, but he really doesn’t deserve to be comfortable right now and it’s sort of comforting in a grounding kind of way.

Originally, he’d planned on _exiting_ the house via the garage door. But he’d been a little too shaky to run well and had sort of tripped and ended up here after that. It’s not ideal, because he’s going to have to come out eventually and deal with consequences. Honestly, that’s just as bad as leaving and getting out of everyone’s way— _like Jason did_ —because it’d be easier for everyone to just move on. And then he wouldn’t have to deal with the looks that he’ll get. That combination of disappointment and pity that he _hates,_ because he didn’t mean to disappoint anyone, he doesn’t know _all_ the rules (but he’s like 99% sure that what happened isn’t any more acceptable here than it was Before) and he isn’t some broken _thing_ that needs to be fixed.

Honestly, he’s not sure if he’d rather have to deal with that— _because what they think actually matters to him—_ or if he’d rather just get the crap beat out of him. Things here can drag on forever and never stop hurting, but injuries heal and the transgression is forgotten by the time the physical evidence has faded.

He’s also angry. Mostly, he’s just angry at himself. Because he lost control. And because he didn’t try to fix it. And because he can’t stop shaking now. And because he hadn’t meant to do anything. In hindsight, he probably should’ve seen it coming. All day he’d had this growing ball of anxiety in his chest, and if he’d been smart, he should have been prepared for this. He _knows_ how to pretend everything is fine, he knows how to work a crowd, but instead he’d just been miserable and far too emotional. The smart thing to do would’ve just been to push it all back like he’s done for, like, his entire life— _disassociating, Dr. Thompkins had called it—_ and then he’d have just been there, no feelings, no problems, just existing in that space. _Because that is the only way to survive._

 ---

After a good hour, Dick knows he needs to get over himself and act like some kind of an adult. Probably not the Bruce-kind, something more…not quite gentle…more tactful? Maybe? Regardless, he needs to get his act together.

Granted, hitting things for the better part of an hour has definitely contributed to this mental clarity. That, and the text Bruce had sent him about ten minutes ago, asking if everything was okay? It’s a good question, because Dick has no idea if everything _is_ okay. _He’s_ more or less okay now—read: he doesn’t feel like punching any socialites in the face anymore—but that’s the extent of his knowledge. Assuming Bruce is working to repair any damage done socially, that still leaves the key person in this mess unaccounted for. Because Dick has no interest in wandering through the entire Manor looking for somebody who can fit into cabinets without complications, he just uses the security feed.

Is it cheating? Maybe. But it’s a hell of a lot more effective than searching room by room, especially since they keep adding new cameras and sensors each time Tim has found a blindspot, more for their own sanity than for security. It pays off now, because he can just rewind and play everything back to track his brother’s course. The trail ends at the garage, when Tim steps out of frame, in the direction of the door that leads outside. His heart sinks, because the last thing he wants is for Tim to have _actually_ taken off.

He’s cursing himself out the entire way to the garage, because okay, this is actually mostly his own fault. He had one job—keep his little brother out of trouble, and that had basically been the one thing he _hadn’t_ done. So if Tim _has_ freaked out and run away, it’s totally on him.

The garage is cold and weirdly quiet—he’s never gotten used to the acoustics in here—but the backdoor is locked. Which means that Tim is almost definitely still in the house, probably in the garage. He stops moving and listens, waiting for any indication of something alive in the large space. There’s a _very_ quite rustle, like fabric moving, and Dick can’t quite keep from letting out a sigh of relief as he makes his way slowly across the room. The corner the sound came from is dark (of course) and more than a little cluttered, but Dick can move through it pretty easily, and yeah, Tim is totally back there, wedged in this tiny gap between a toolbox and the wall. He looks less than thrilled to see Dick, which, to be fair, is probably justified.

Sighing, Dick sits down against the toolbox, trying to find a semi-comfortable position on the frigid cement floor. “How is that you find the _one spot_ in the entire Manor that doesn’t have a live feed without ever actually trying, but you can’t find your own shoes?”

There’s no answer, which is basically what he’d expected, so he decides to go with his usual strategy of just sort of rambling until Tim does _something—_ interrupt, react, move, anything besides just sitting there and acting like Dick isn’t talking at all. This tactic either works pretty fast or turns into a stalemate that lasts for hours on end.

“I’m pretty sure that if you ever got bored enough, you could probably invent some kind of security system that’d fix those gaps, which would be nice. And you could patent it or something, make millions selling the concept of safety to paranoid widows with enormous fortunes, I dunno. Just sayin’, it’s got possibilities, Timmy. I’d get a cut though, because I’m the one who came up with it.”

This last part does elicit a sort of choked laughing sound, which definitely counts as a victory.

“Of course, I have like _no clue_ what I’d actually _do_ with all that money. Buy an island, maybe? Or a whole country, I mean, dream big, right? What’s the going rate for countries these days? I mean—”

“One hundred and sixty-four trillion, two hundred and one billion, eight hundred and seven million, four hundred and seventy-six thousand, five hundred and sixty-six dollars. Probably.”

Dick opens and shuts his mouth a few times before coming up with “huh?”

“The cost of a country,” Tim explains matter-of-factly. “It’d be about—”

“A lot of money, got it, thanks.” Dick interjects quickly, staving off the sheer quantity of numbers that he’d just gotten a moment ago. “You did that in your _head?_ ”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, first off, we need to go to sic you on some of the W.E. board members because that’s terrifying. And secondly, just… _how???_ ”

Tim shifts a little before answering. “The average economic value of a human being, according to the Urban Institute, is currently four million, eight hundred and twenty-six thousand, five hundred and forty dollars, and sixty-one cents. And the average population of a country is approximately thirty-four million, twenty thousand, six hundred people. Then you just multiply one by the other. The sum is approximately what a country would be worth according to the laws of economics.”

“You’re terrifying, did you know that? I mean, for real. And _why_ are we sending you to high school again?”

“Because it’s good for my ‘social development’. And because Alfred thought it’d be better than me staying here all day, every day for the next few years. _I_ didn’t get a vote.”

Dick snorts. “Yeah, well, you’re thirteen. You don’t really _get_ a vote on anything until you’re at least sixteen.” And because he knows exactly what retort to expect, he hastily adds “Not in this family, anyway.”

“Jason got a vote.”

“That’s because Jason is both a brat and basically impossible to control without his full cooperation. You, on the other hand, are a wonderful kid who doesn’t live to be as difficult as possible.” Of course, now that he’s said it, Dick’s pretty sure he’s just jinxed them all. “Also, Jason _is_ sixteen. So…”

“ _I_ didn’t cooperate and I still had to go to the stupid party. Which is _so_ not fair!”

“Um…I had to go too…”

“I know.” Tim’s voice is flat and emotionless.

“…Okay…Look, I’m sorry that I bailed on you earlier. That was…” he trails off.

They sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, enough for Dick to be slightly surprised when, out of the blue, Tim says “I _hate_ them.”

“Huh?”

“They used to used to have these…these parties. Like it was some sort of country club, y’know? They’d get all dressed up ‘nd have like, wine or—or champagne, maybe. I dunno.” He takes a shuddery breath. “S-sometimes they’d wanna, um, show off? Like when they had guests or something. Show—show off their Talons. But more like ‘look at what a great investment this was, wasn’t it a great idea? Look what we can accomplish, just imagine the future we can build.’” Tim edges forward a little, partially in view now. His eyes are huge and intense. “Nd you’d just…you’d get paraded around and there was _nothing_ you could do. You just had to take it, let them…just…you couldn’t move or—or _react._ No matter what. Just. It was like…like you’re nothing, you’re not even a person to them, just this—this _tool,_ or some kind of doll, or maybe a pet.”

Dick makes a sort of strangled noise, because that’s all he can do right now.

“And you couldn’t tell _who_ anyone was. Not under those masks. I mean, sometimes there was a tell, like a-a watch or even an accent, but…you just…you couldn’t know,” Tim says softly. “And now…”

“Now you don’t know if it’s the same people or not,” Dick finishes, having _finally_ gotten his ability to speak back. He lets a very long sigh. “Shit. Why didn’t you say something? I mean…just…we wouldn’t have…y’know?”

Tim shrugs, not making eye contact. It’s like he’s waiting for some sort of punishment, or at least some kind of negative reaction. But he doesn’t scoot back into the corner or cower like he used too—shoulders curled in, eyes vacant, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood. He doesn’t flinch, eyes darting around for an escape like Jason would. But it’s still cowering.

“Okay,” Dick says slowly. “Well, you got me out of that party, so thanks for that. Um…you know, she _is_ a terrible person. I mean, awful! And it’s not like you threw water on her like—”

“ _I don’t want to talk about it!_ ” Tim snaps, pulling his knees back up to his chin.

“Sorry! Sorry. I just…sorry. Look, do you think we could maybe _not_ stay in here?” Dick’s just noticed just how much Tim’s is shaking and it’s probably not _just_ from the effort it must have taken for him to say everything, especially given the amount of time he’d spent outside in the rain last night and the fact that it’s definitely less than twenty degrees in here. “I mean, the ground is, like _freezing_ and the floor is _hard._ Now, I know that you’re ‘fine’ right here, but um, I’m, like, old and sore. And the cold is making my arm ache like crazy.”

It’s a lie, but finally Tim nods and slowly moves to follow when Dick gets up. His fingers, Dick notes, are _actually_ blue…where they’re not smudged red from the blood he’s drawn from picking at his fingers. Feeling a twinge of guilt for letting his little brother get to this point, he starts to pick the pace up just a tad, hoping that getting Tim moving and out of the freezing garage will at least help.

\---

By the time they’ve made it back to the inhabited part of the house (careful to avoid the party), Tim’s still shaking, but his fingers are no longer blue. Dick’s mentally kicking himself now, because yeah, he totally forgot that the boy basically has no immune system and was probably already fighting off a cold _before_ all this, so now he’s basically just doomed the poor kid to at least a week of misery.

To make up for this, he insists on getting them both (because he knows Tim won’t cooperate otherwise) some hot chocolate. And he forces Tim into a sweatshirt that he found in the boy’s room…which he’s pretty sure belongs to Jason, but doesn’t comment. Once he’s accomplished this, he gets them settled in his bedroom, because he’s well aware that Tim barely sleeps in his own room and also that Bruce won’t think to look there for quite a while.

Tim eyes him the entire time, like he’s not sure what Dick’s up to. But he doesn’t bolt and he doesn’t move away when Dick does sit down next to him.

“So, I promise not to talk about what happened earlier if you drink _all_ of that. Deal?”

“Fine,” Tim sighs reluctantly. He eyes the Band-Aids wrapped over his fingers ruefully as he lifts the mug up.

Dick pretends that he’s not seriously pleased to see Tim actually ingesting something instead of his usual thing. To distract himself, he takes a huge gulp from his own drink and nearly spits it out when the heat hits his tongue. Somehow, Tim seems totally unfazed by the heat, but he does nearly snort some of it out of his nose when he tries not to laugh. When he’s finished sputtering, he stops laughing, smile fading so fast that it’s almost like it was never there.

“What’s he going to do?” Tim’s voice is small, like it was when he’d first arrived.

“He’s not going to do anything.” Dick tries to sound as confident as possible. “You’re not the first kid to piss of a socialite or cause a scene at one of these events. Hell, you think Jason hasn’t told somebody to fuck off at one of these? Or me? I mean, to be honest, it wasn’t Jason who threw a drink at someone. I did.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Um, I was about your age, I think. I’d been living with Bruce for a little over a year, and, uh, he’d been pretty careful about making sure I had my space, that I wasn’t just thrown into the crazy world of Gotham socialites. You gotta remember, I’d _never_ been anywhere that fancy, and it was all so overwhelming. But, um, I’d been to maybe two or three parties by that point, so I guess he thought I’d be okay while he went to talk with someone. Anyway, this woman started talking to me—well, more like _at_ me, just saying all this racist, ignorant stuff. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t heard it before, but it was the first time since my parents had died. So, um, I guess I just reacted, I don’t really remember _thinking_ about it. But I had a glass of, uh, this sparkling cider, just sitting there in my hand. And I just went and splashed that entire thing onto her face and dress. Totally soaked her. Pretty sure I was screaming curses at her too, I dunno.”

Dick snorts, remembering. “She was just shocked. And Bruce came over, demanding to know what was going on. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but, um, he just sort of picked me up and carried me out to the car. Didn’t say anything, just got us in the car and away from the party. And I was totally convinced that I was about to be dumped off at an orphanage or something. Didn’t happen, obviously. Instead he just asked if I was okay and _apologized_ for not paying enough attention. After that, he kinda just cracked up because she really had looked so totally shocked and confused. But yeah, that’s about all that happened.”

Tim doesn’t look very convinced.

“Jason actually got banned from leaving Bruce’s side for like three months once,” Dick adds. “He wouldn’t stop insulting people. Well, I guess it was more of calling them on their shit, but since rich people are usually pretty sensitive about that, it kinda caused a lot of trouble. Honestly, I think being stuck with Bruce wasn’t that bad, because Jason just read a book the entire time.”

He can’t really think of any other examples, so he takes a cautious sip of hot chocolate and starts thinking about what he’s gonna tell Bruce later. Tim’s not looking quite as miserable and he’s definitely relaxed some, so Dick decides to just leave it be for now.

\---

It’s nearly midnight by the time Bruce _finally_ manages to get away, feeling like he’s definitely fulfilled his social obligation for the next ten _years._ He’s particularly angry that he just had to spend hours taking mending the fragile egos of socialites _instead_ of his son, especially now that he’s spent around three hours mulling over what had caused the scene (aside from Ms. Dumas’s total lack of social awareness). Honestly, he’s a little ashamed that it took him that long to recall what he knows about Tim’s history with Gotham’s upper-class—he hadn’t considered that, he’d just assumed that given the fact that the boy’s parents had been a part of that scene, Tim would be just fine in a similar setting. He hadn’t thought about who the members of the Court of Owls had been.

Dick had texted him around an hour ago, saying everything was okay and that his brother was currently asleep in Dick’s room. He had added that he was pretty sure Tim was coming down with a cold, which had only added to Bruce’s guilt. Overall, he’s pretty much failed as a parent this week, and he’s at a loss over how to rectify the situation.

If it was Dick or Jason, he could probably just offer a very sincere apology and agree to any demands and the entire thing would be forgiven, although in Jason’s case it would take several days of this and about a month of Bruce doing everything in his power to keep from making similar mistakes. But he’s not nearly as certain of what to do with Tim, because there’s entirely different factors to consider: as much as he’s trying to be a good father, he’s also inadvertently created sort of impersonal dynamic with his ultimatum and reluctance to trust the boy; whether he meant to or not, he’s shown that there are limits to their relationship. And he’d be a fool if he honestly thought that Tim hasn’t analyzed all of this and come to that same conclusion—the boy is young, but almost eerily smart. Which brings up the fact that Tim will have already realized all the implications and consequences from his outburst and, because he _is_ young, has probably assigned them a lot more importance than they deserve.

By the time Bruce has made his way upstairs (stopping to ditch his jacket and update Alfred quickly), he’s just as at a loss as before. The bedroom door is open enough for him to see inside before entering, and he can see that Dick is still awake and sitting on the floor, watching something on his laptop. He glances up as Bruce gently pushes the door open and enters.

“He’s out cold,” Dick says, nodding at the bed, where Tim is sprawled out, still in his dress clothes. “For someone who’s so jumpy, he’s a ridiculously heavy sleeper. Barely even twitched when I moved him off the floor.”

Bruce hums in agreement and sits on the edge of the bed, moving one of Tim’s legs so he doesn’t sit on it.

“How’d it go with what’s-her-face?”

“Fine,” Bruce sighs. “Although I’m beginning to feel like I should have let you and Jason terrorize her.”

“Yeah.” Dick closes the laptop and looks at Bruce seriously. “She’s awful. It wasn’t his fault, y’know?”

“I do. Tonight was just…a mistake. On my part, not his.”

Dick cocks an eyeball. “You gonna let _him_ know that too?”

“Of course. And honestly, she _is_ awful. At least he didn’t throw anything at her.”

“You really don’t need to bring that up every time!”

“Why not? It’s definitely one of my favorite stories,” Bruce chuckles.

“Great. Hey,” Dick hesitates for a moment. “Um…you _did_ check out the guests, right? Like, who was here? I mean, we really don’t know—”

“We don’t know who it was under those masks.” Bruce finishes. “I ran basic checks, but nothing too extensive. It…it didn’t even occur to me that…”

“That we didn’t catch all of the members? Yeah, me neither. Ms. Dumas wasn’t the member of any secret society, if it makes you feel better. I think he just had a flashback; he just kind of panicked. Um, he was in the garage when I found him. It took a while to get him out and, uh, he looked pretty rough then. I’m pretty sure he had a fever going by the time he fell asleep too.”

After a second, Dick adds “I gave him some Tylenol. So that should help.”

Bruce sighs again and nods, standing up. “Hopefully. I’m sorry about tonight.”

“Tell him that.”

“I will. You want me to move him to his own bed?”

Dick shakes his head, opening his laptop again. “Nah, he’s fine there. Thanks though. Hey, B?”

Pausing in the door, Bruce turns back, looking quizzically at the young man.

“If you wanna try and make it up, maybe let him help you out with some of those cases. It’ll give him something to do if he _is_ sick and it’ll make him feel more like you actually trust him.”

Bruce nods. “Thanks, Dick. Try and get some rest, okay?”

\---

_Jason hasn’t written in over a month._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delays. Things went south, and I spent the past month and a half on bedrest. It's a little hard to write when you're trying not to die. Anyway, I'm doing a little bit better, so we'll see how this goes.


	16. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes a "murder wall", Selina still doesn't know why she hangs out with birds, and there's a new player in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a little OOC? Idk man, I can't keep track of canon all the time!

Selina’s not sure how she’s become some kind of den mother for a reformed Talon, but here she is. Somehow, that cup of hot chocolate almost a year ago turned into regular visits, and while she’s not complaining, she’s also a little confused as to how this happened. Currently, she’s sitting on the couch with a mug of coffee, watching the kid do something involving a large map, a variety of papers, and a shit ton of pushpins.

“So…why are you making a serial killer map on my wall?”

“Because,” he says, still looking at the wall. “I don’t want them to know that I’m doing this at all, so I can’t just do it at home.”

Sighing, Selina shifts positions. “Right. And ‘this’ is what, exactly?”

“I’m trying to figure out why he’s just sort of disappeared. And it helps to track what I _do_ know.”

She doesn’t comment on how he skirts around the answer. Everyone knows that there’s a new kid wearing the Robin suit, but she’s one of the few people to aware of the fact that the predecessor is not, in fact, dead. He hasn’t explained it and Selina hasn’t asked, but she can guess that there’s some serious tension in that family and even the most out of touch people have heard the rumors about the Bats and the Joker’s disappearance. And Selina is not out of touch. She’s not stupid either though, and something tells her that pushing it with any of them (aside from maybe the oldest bird) would only end with her being alienated.

“Okay. What do you know then? And how does Batdad not know about your little quest already?”

The response is muffled slightly by the paper he’s holding with his mouth as he stretches to reach a higher spot on the map. “He’s…busy. ‘Nd ‘s not like ‘m hidin’ it. But…” He pauses to take the piece of paper out. “I started getting the postcards a few months after he left, about once or twice a month. ‘Nd then they just stopped. I’ve got a timeline because of that, which is something. Also, tabloids are useful sometimes.”

“Tabloids, huh? What about the other stuff you’ve got there?”

“Supercomputers are nice too.”

Selina snorts. “I’m sure. So, where exactly does the Bat think you are right now?”

“Home, probably. He should be at work for the next…” The kid pauses to glance at the clock on the wall. “Hour and a half.”

“So have we totally abandoned the whole ‘secret identity’ thing, or are you hoping I’m stupid enough to not recognize you?”

He’d shown up at her apartment wearing the same clothes he’d worn when they’d first met, sans mask. The sneakers, she notes, are a new touch, and he had at least made some effort to stash a school uniform in the bottom of his backpack where she wouldn’t see it. But Selina _does_ have a Facebook account, and it’s not hard to place the kid’s face, even with the messy hair and split lip he’s currently got. And of course she’s had her own theories and suspicions for a while now, so it’s not a big surprise. But still.

He shrugs. “We all know you guys aren’t just ‘exchanging information’ or anything like that when you meet up. If you haven’t figured it out after screwing him for, like, four years, I’d really be surprised. I mean, seriously, do you guys have any idea how unsubtle you are?” The amusement in his voice is obvious and, frankly, a little annoying.

“I am _not_ going to discuss my sex life with anyone under the age of eighteen,” Selina snaps. “Besides, _he_ seems to think I’m that oblivious.”

“He’s kinda an idiot sometimes,” the kid says offhandedly, sorting through the papers again. “So, do you love him?”

And this, Selina remembers (again), is why she really needs to not hang out with kids, ever. One second you’re discussing some sort of research project and the next you’re trying to explain your love life without going into any detail.

“It’s…complicated. Why, you worried I’m gonna end up being your new stepmom or something?”

“Ew. And no, I was just wondering. Geez.”

“Rude.” Selina smirks, finishing off her coffee. “How long will you be leaving the murder wall up? Wouldn’t want to bring home any late-night guest while it’s up, would I?”

The boy groans in disgust and starts stuffing papers into his bag. “Maybe a few weeks? I dunno.” His tone turns somber. “But it’s, um, it’s gonna be one year next week, ‘nd I just…I just wanna see if I can find out what happened to him.”

“There’s no rush, I was just curious,” she says, a bit more gently than before. “It’s not like I’ve got any use for that wall anyway. You walking to the bus stop?”

“Yeah. ‘S cheaper and if I leave now, I’ll have time to come up with an alibi. Um…thanks, by the way.”

“No problem, kid. Want me to walk you?” Selina typically wouldn’t offer anything like that, but, well, he’s not exactly wearing a disguise, and everybody knows that the Bat only patrols at night. It’s not like he can’t take care of himself though.

He grins. “Nah, I got it. See ya.”

\---

Patrol that night is brutal. By the time Tim is sent home, he’s managed to take a baseball bat to the ribs, almost get shot twice, and hit a wall with his head with a lot more force than recommended. It’s not really his fault, these things happen and there’s no guarantees in this line of work. But the set of Batman’s jaw and the curtness of the order definitely make it _feel_ like it’s sort of his fault—he should’ve been faster, smarter, tougher.

By the time he makes his way into the cave, Tim’s ready to just call the whole night a wash and just hide away somewhere until he either falls asleep or gets caught and told to go to bed. But Alfred is waiting when he arrives, no doubt planning to preempt this.

“Don’t suppose I c’n just go upstairs?” Tim asks peevishly. “I didn’t break anything.”

The butler merely gives him an unimpressed look. “You should know by now that not breaking any bones is hardly an acceptable excuse for avoiding medical treatment.”

“Fine. How come Dick gets away with it if it’s mandatory?” He starts trying to get the top half of his uniform off without aggravating his aching ribs. “Or Bruce, for that matter? He’s always _way_ more hurt than me.”

“Master Dick doesn’t ‘get away’ with much, he just avoids it longer. As does Master Bruce. It’s not a recommended strategy, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yeah, but it’s easier,” Tim mutters, tugging the tunic off and examining the uniform with some interest. He really can’t remember what caused the new tear on the side. “’Sides, ‘s not like bruises will _kill_ me.”

Alfred looks decidedly unimpressed. “No, but internal bleeding will. Sit down.”

“How long do I have to do this?”

“Until I’m incapable of preventing you from leaving. What happened to your arm?”

Tim shrugs a little. “Bumped it on something, I guess? I dunno. ‘S just a bruise. Also, B said to make sure you check for a concussion, which I _don’t_ have.”

“I’m so glad to have your medical expertise in this matter,” Alfred replies drily, prodding at the bruised ribs. “Do try not to squirm. And as far as concussion go, I’d be willing to bet you have a minor one. Your coordination seems to be lacking at the moment. Alright, nothing seems to be broken. You _will_ be icing it before you leave the cave.”

“Could I do that upstairs? ‘S cold down here.” Tim shivers a little for emphasis. He’s trying to decide if he should feel bad about exploiting the fact that he has a compromised immune system to get out of sitting in the cave. It’s not a total lie though, it _is_ chilly, and the last time he’d been sick had been an ordeal for everyone involved.

After a moment’s hesitation, Alfred sighs. “I suppose, if you give me your word that you will remain in the _occupied_ part of the house, then you may.”

“Thanks! I promise I won’t go find somewhere weird to sit. Where’re the ice?”

\---

After about an hour, Tim ditches the ice pack. He’s always cold, and this is just making that worse, because all the layers in the world won’t help when you’ve got a freaking chunk of ice wrapped in a towel against your bare skin. So he puts the partially melted ice in the sink and pulls on a sweatshirt (one of Dick’s, because that fits over the other sweater and his shirt), and he debates socks, but he really doesn’t care for them and it’d mean bending over, which he doesn’t want to do.

Originally, he’d planned on going back out after Bruce either came home or was on the furthest part of his patrol. But his ribs really do hurt a lot more than he’d expected, and it’s not like he really had a reason for sneaking out to begin with. He just doesn’t want to be _here,_ and that’s the easiest way to ensure that he isn’t. That’s one thing he does miss from Before—if he didn’t want to stay somewhere, he’d just leave. That had been nice.

There’s a very short list of things he misses from Before, like the predictability, or how he didn’t have to eat if he didn’t feel like it, or the freedom to go anywhere he wanted to. He didn’t have to worry about Parent/Teacher Meetings, or bedtimes, or not knowing what the rules of the game are. There are even things from the Court that he kind of misses, mostly knowing exactly what would happen—you screw up, you die; no what-ifs or buts.

It’s not that he doesn’t like being here, but it’s a weird sort of limbo and he doesn’t know what’s expected and what isn’t; not in public, but everything else. Jason would always say that he didn’t always know either, so they could just get in trouble together. And that’s something he really misses, because Bruce and Alfred and even Dick all seem to know what to do, and they don’t always tell him.

Since Tim now has nowhere to go, he’s left with the burning question of what to do. He briefly considers calling Dick but decides against it since Dick’s probably a little tired of dealing with him by now, since he did stick around for like two weeks. After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, he decides that going for a walk is probably the best choice, even if it means pain.

\---

Because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s left, Tim decided on digging out his Talon uniform, partially for the camouflage, but also because nobody realizes (or has brought up) that he still has it. Honestly, he’s not sure _why_ he kept it—he isn’t Talon anymore and it’s not like he doesn’t have other options. But it’s been shoved into the box under his bed, where he keeps that sort of stuff.

There’s something strange about being out at night as anything but Robin now. It’s a weird feeling, because it’s not like being Talon either. He’s ditched the hood entirely, having opted for a borrowed domino mask after Catwoman had pointed out that he spent more time holding the damn thing than he did actually wearing it.

Since he doesn’t have any real purpose, Tim debates just following Batman around like he usually does. But then he decides that maybe he should just be useful, since it might lessen the Bat’s anger if he’s caught. So he starts poking around for any clues about whoever keeps leaving them tips.

The tips had started showing up a few weeks ago, totally at random, all of them typed on normal copy paper, all supposedly from the same person, who was calling themselves “The Spoiler”. Tim really thinks that it’s kind of a stupid name, but since they haven’t actually _seen_ the informant, let alone stop them, he hasn’t had a chance to say so.

Despite Batman’s usual obsessiveness, he hasn’t really put this on the top of his priority list. But Tim is bored and he has time, so he’s got a decent idea of what’s up. So far, he’s figured out that there is a slight pattern to the clues, enough to give him an idea of where the person is comfortable, and all of the tips focus mainly on one criminal, some guy called the Cluemaster, which is also stupid. The guy is basically a petty thief with a decent trademark who’d been in jail since before Tim. But he’d gotten out about six months ago, and the tips had started up around four. Originally, the dude had left his own “clues” at the scene of the crimes, which according to Dick was a big part of why he got caught and that they weren’t even that good. But he’d used his own name, and the clues had been worded differently.

Tim’s current theory is that it’s someone who the Cluemaster pissed off, possibly even a partner who’d been crossed. Whoever it is has got to be close, otherwise there’s no real motive. People who base their careers on stories really don’t make a lot of real enemies. Not unless the Riddler had gotten upset that someone was using his bit or something.

Because he’s spent the past month figuring out the pattern, it just feels right to start by testing it out. So about ten minutes later, Tim finds himself sitting semi-comfortably on a very steep church roof, watching the buildings across the street. It’s an old roof, and the shingles keep slipping, so he has a very tight grip on the ridge of it, trying to keep out of sight and not fall at the same time. It’s not ideal.

After a few minutes, he starts to wonder if this really was the best strategy, because his arm is aching and he keeps losing his footing and there’s no way he’s staying there for more than an hour. He’s almost talked himself out of the entire thing when he finally sees movement on the opposite roof. Very carefully, he lets go and slides down the roof until he’s right at the edge. It’s not too difficult to jump to the building next to it, which is blessedly flat and gives him a good angle for using a grapnel.

At first, he’s worried that the person heard him coming across, but then he sees someone crouching low and trying not-so-carefully to secure a box to the roof. Tim grins a little and hops off his new perch onto the same roof, really wishing it didn’t have gravel on it. But it does, and his feet make a soft crunching sound, startling the other person into looking up.

For a second, they both freeze. The other person is wearing a purple outfit that, honestly, looks about as rough as his own right now. They’re smart enough to have their entire face covered, which means he’d have to get a lot closer to i.d. them. The person— _Spoiler_ is wearing purple sneakers, which for some reason, sticks in his mind like it’s actually important.

Then Spoiler mutters something that sounds a lot like “shit” and takes off. Thankfully, Tim can read body language and is ready and already in motion by that point. So they’re both running across the roof, slipping a little on the gravel, and Tim is already got a few new details, mostly that this is definitely a girl who has legs that are a bit longer than his. Also, she’s got the advantage of knowing the building and area, which sucks, because if he manages to lose her, he’s basically lost.

She reaches the edge first and dives off, grabbing the rail of the fire escape on the opposite building, swinging so she flips up, onto the grate and then goes through the window. Tim is really not in the mood for this, but he jumps too and doesn’t bother checking for glass, because he’s already losing the trail at this rate. The inside is mostly empty office space, and he can see Spoiler already across the room, heading for the door.

Cursing under his breath, Tim puts on speed, managing to close the gap quite a bit until they’re both in the hall. He’s _almost_ close enough to grab hold of the cape Spoiler is wearing (seriously, capes are a liability even if they’re iconic) when she turns long enough to throw something at him. And then there’s smoke everywhere, stinging his eyes and making it difficult to breathe.

Needless to say, he does not catch her. It’s a total mess, and the only good part is that Batman has no clue he’s up to this, so the only people who know about this epic failure are him and Spoiler. Hopefully, since Batman’s not overly interested in looking into it, it’ll stay that way. It feels like forever since Tim’s had something to focus on besides the mess that is his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm not dead! Sorry for the major wait; I had to take some time to focus on myself and this fell to the side with a lot of other stuff. It's been a rough couple of months and I wanna thank you all for staying with me!
> 
> Anyway, I can't remember when Selina found out Bruce is Batman, there's like fifty million timelines and I don't have a clue what's canon anymore. Besides, she isn't stupid. I do recall in the arch with Hush, she hinted pretty strongly that she knew way before he told her. Anyway, I don't know how anyone can bang the same person for literally years and never figure out their identity. Seriously. 
> 
> I know Tim in the comics is usually the second most paranoid person in the entire family, but hey! AUs give you some perks. One of which being that this Tim tends to do his own thing and has a very different mindset than the previous Robins. But he's also a really fucked up kid, and Selina's kind of like a safe space--she's got a past and she and Batman don't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, and in a lot of ways, her relationship with Bruce is similar to Tim's. Plus she lets him eat junk food. 
> 
> Oh, and Steph's here, yay! Lol, ya'll can thank my sister, who said that Tim really needs to make some friends.


	17. Space and Bricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn't have a plan. That's probably not a good thing.

The next morning, his lungs still feel a little tight, and Tim can’t seem to stop coughing. He’s pretty sure it’s because whatever he got hit with last night was some kind of home-made smoke bomb, most likely full of all kinds of stuff that you shouldn’t inhale. Unfortunately, since, _officially,_ he’d just gone straight to bed and hadn’t left the house at all last night, this means that he can’t just explain all this when both Alfred and Bruce get concerned. On the upside, he doesn’t have to go to school because they don’t want him to relapse. So he has the whole day to whittle down the list of possible identities for the Spoiler to one real possibility. Stephanie Brown, daughter of Crystal and Arthur Brown; the latter of whom is also widely known as the Cluemaster. Given age and size, the daughter seemed like the best bet. All of which does nothing to actually help him figure out what he’s gonna do.

 ---

By the time Bruce gets home from work, Tim’s feeling much better, but he doesn’t say so, because what he needs right now if for Bruce to not suspect anything—if he can make it ‘til tonight, he should have free reign while the man’s at a conference. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that this means Bruce is _leaving_ in favor of focusing on the freedom that should provide him. It doesn’t actually make him less anxious, even though he knows that this isn’t the same, he’s not actually going to be left alone anymore, but still. And since he’s at a stand-still as Robin, there’s nothing besides a few school assignments to help keep him distracted.

\---

It’s the first time since everything started that Bruce has actually had to leave the city—not Batman, just Bruce Wayne—and he’s not very happy about it. Between Tim and then Jason, he’s had his hands full here, and he’s not entirely sure that everything won’t fall apart while he’s gone. But he _does_ have some limited life outside of his family, and Wayne Enterprises, while self-sufficient in most respects, needs Bruce Wayne every now and then to be the face of the company. And right now, for instance, there’s a particularly difficult merger taking place over in China that requires his social status.

Unfortunately, it also requires some paperwork that he’s not been able to find anywhere at work, which means having to search the terrifying mess on his desk at home. The fact that he’s not actually cleared it out in years—read: since he’d first brought Dick home—it’s become something that resembles a hoarder’s nest of papers, books, and God-knows what else. So far, there’s some stratification, and he’s made enough progress to dig out the pile of most recent documents. Now, of course, he has to sit there and go through all of them in hopes of finding the right ones…

“Did you know that there are _at least_ five million different species that nobody’s discovered yet?”

Bruce almost jumps, somehow having missed his youngest son’s entrance into the study. He turns around slowly, trying to figure out _why_ this fact matters right now.

“Huh?”

“Undiscovered species,” Tim says, like this is a conversation they’ve been having this whole time. “There’s five million or more. You’d think they had some way of finding these things by now, but _no,_ instead we just keep sending more probes to other planets. It doesn’t make sense, B.”

“Okay. Uh, did you come in here for a reason?” He’s wracking his mind, trying to remember if there’s some school assignment he’d offered to help with (not that Tim ever needs help) or something along those lines. He really hopes there isn’t, because he has to be on a plane heading to Hong Kong in a few hours and he can’t think of any way around it if he did promise Tim that he’d do something.

Tim shifts his weight from one foot to another and looks a little sheepish. “No. Sorry. I, uh…s-sorry. ‘M just gonna let you g-get back to uh…”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Bruce interjects quickly, because really, the distraction is a relief after the past three hours of paperwork. “I’m just finishing up these review sheets before I get packed. Honestly, undiscovered species sounds a lot more interesting.” The boy hesitates, fiddling with his sleeve (not picking at his nails, thank God), so he prompts with “What kinds of species, exactly? Are we talking animals, or just living organisms in general?”

“Oh. Uh, in general. Scientists have only found like 1.2 million species, which I guess is only like fourteen percent of what’s living on Earth. And that’s not counting all the extinct ones!” The statement is accompanied by some very excited hand gestures. “There’s still eighty-six percent of Earth’s organisms we know nothing about!”

“And the space probes relate to this how?”

“Doesn’t it make sense to finish learning everything about our own planet _before_ we start looking at others?”

Brue can’t keep from chuckling a little at the indignant expression on his son’s face. “That’s a good point. But I don’t think you’re going to convince NASA to hold off one their programs any time soon, kiddo. Um, may I ask why you’re researching this?”

“School.” Tim shrugs. “We have to write about a current scientific issue for class. I was going to do mine on conservation or something, but then I g-got kinda distracted and…”

“Undiscovered species?”

“Yeah.”

\---

After about two hours, Bruce is beginning to feel like Tim is just following him around the house without any real purpose. The boy had wandered off after about fifteen minutes, leaving Bruce to finish his paperwork. He’d reappeared when Bruce left the study to find something to eat, trailing behind him and chattering about something entirely different than before until Bruce had accidentally almost knocked him over by stopping suddenly. After that, Bruce had recommended he sit down out of the way, offering to make them both sandwiches. Tim had agreed and actually eaten the entire sandwich without asking, which was what had made Bruce suspicious in the first place. So he’d tested the theory, doing busy work that required him to move from room to room. And every time, the boy had found an excuse for being there too.

Right now, he was sitting cross-legged, watching Bruce try to stuff a week’s worth of clothing into his suitcase. Normally, Alfred took care of this part—Bruce has always been terrible at packing, but since he’s still trying to figure out _why_ Tim is following him, he’s doing it himself. He’s so busy trying to come up with a reason for the strange behavior that he doesn’t realize Tim’s stopped talking for about a minute.

Frowning slightly, he glances over at his son, who stares back pensively.

“What?”

“Um…” Tim blinks for a moment, face shifting into its practiced blankness. “Uh, how…how l-long are you, um how long will the t-trip be?”

“No longer than necessary,” Bruce replies, trying to place the look in his son’s eyes. “It’s a board meeting for the new WE branch. It shouldn’t take too much time.”

“Yeah. B-but, like how many weeks?”

Bruce sets down the shirt he’d been folding and straightens up, turning to face the boy. “Tim, I’m only going to be gone for four days. Maybe five if there’s complications. It’s not a vacation, you know?”

“Right.”

“Okay…” Bruce lets out a sigh and runs a hand through his hair, wracking his brain for something that might convince the cynical thirteen year old. “Look, here’s the itinerary for the entire trip, okay? See, it has every single appointment and meeting I have to attend, right? And you know that I can’t find an excuse to get out of these ones, they’re far too important. So it’s a pretty rigid schedule, Tim. Here.”

He waits until Tim takes the paper before continuing.

“I won’t have _any_ free time until Wednesday at the earliest, and that’s mostly me playing nice with other people for several miserable hours. Trust me, after that it would take an absolute disaster to keep me from leaving. Besides, why would I want to hang around Hong Kong with people I don’t know when I could just come home and spend time with my family?”

“Okay.” Tim tries to hand the paper back.

Bruce doesn’t reach out to grab it. “I’ve got another copy, so you hang on to that one for me. Look, why don’t I let Alfred finish this up—he’s going to repack everything anyway, he always does when I pack my own bags—and you and I can take a look at that science paper of yours, huh? I’ve got an hour an a half before I need to head to the airport, and now you’ve got me wondering about unknown organisms. You can give me a sneak peek at it, yeah? And I’ll be expecting to read the whole thing when I get home next week. Sound good?”

After a few seconds, Tim nods once, decisively. “Yeah.”

\---

Tim ends up going out that night. He needs some way to be out of his own head for a while, and since Bruce is gone, he might as well work on his personal project. Because he’s not sure if Alfred will allow him out, he opts for his Talon uniform and sneaks out. It has occurred to him that it’s entirely possible that the butler knows about his excursions and just hasn’t said anything (the fact that someone’s added some extra padding and mended the rips in the uniform). But as long as the man doesn’t bring it up, Tim will pretend that no one knows what he’s up to.

One of the biggest downsides about living in the manor is that it’s nearly an hour’s drive from downtown Gotham and a huge pain in the ass when you don’t have a ride. Tim hasn’t found any way to get himself a vehicle, so he opts for walking to the nearest bus station. It’s something he’s done for years and it’s still the easiest way to get around. Once he gets into the heart of the city, he makes his way towards the Narrows.  

He still doesn’t have a plan, but at least this time he’s prepared for any sort of chemical attacks. It’d be nice to have some of the fun tech that comes with the Robin uniform, but again, he doesn’t need to raise any unnecessary suspicion at home. As it is, he’s managed to smuggle out a handful of Batarangs (there’s so many that no one’s missed them) and the lock-picking kit. Besides, he’s done this with a lot less before.

Since he’s still lacking anything beyond this very vague idea of how this might go down, he decides to do what Jason has always argued is stalking (Bruce claims it’s just surveillance) and finds a nice spot to watch the Brown house and waits for something to happen. He’s got a decent view into the upper bedroom—definitely the daughter’s—and after around fifteen minutes, she enters the room, flopping onto the bed with the same sort of boneless free-fall that Tim’s done a thousand times. It does occur to him that it’s kinda creepy to be spying on her like this, but it’s not like he’s doing this just for kicks.

It turns out that Stephanie _does_ have a plan, sort of. She waits until the neighborhood is silent and dark before disappearing somewhere in the house and reemerging a little later in costume, sans mask. Slipping out of her window, she starts down the fire escape. It’s quickly apparent that she doesn’t have much in the way of skills, but she’s definitely got some innate talent—she doesn’t have too much trouble jumping the gap between her apartment and the adjacent building and she sticks her landings pretty well—Tim’s willing to bet she’s one of those people who does parkour for fun.

Regardless, he doesn’t have too much trouble keeping up. She definitely knows where she’s going and he doesn’t, so he has to follow instead of getting ahead. It’s not ideal, but it gives him plenty of time to watch and memorize how the girl moves, analyzing for weaknesses. She doesn’t have the posture or awareness of a fighter, and since she went for a chemical attack instead of just facing him last time, he’s almost positive that she’s got no real skill there.

It’s slow going, but finally they reach an old factory, boarded up and clearly not in operation. She makes her way onto the roof, and Tim shadows. There’s a skylight up there, providing a clear view into the room below. From here, he can see the Cluemaster and a couple other guys sitting around a table, talking. A few seconds go by, and then Stephanie seems to have come to a decision and starts moving towards the maintenance door a further down the roof. In his mind, Tim swears violently, because now he has to do something before this goes badly.

\---

When her dad had gotten out of jail (again), he’d sworn up and down that he was changed and on the straight-and-narrow. Steph had been skeptical—he’d only said that literally _every other time_ he’d come home. But this time it’d seemed real, he’d lasted a couple months, longer than any other time. And then he’d started coming in and out at odd times, sometimes with bruises or with “friends” who definitely weren’t there for dinner. It wasn’t too long before he’d made the news…again.

At first, she’d been furious, ready to just scream at him, to demand he leave, that he never come back, she’d wanted to get Mom on board too. But there’s nothing that easy—if she hasn’t done it by now, Steph’s pretty sure that she’ll never actually leave him. And then she’d thought that maybe the cops or even Batman would do something, but apparently her dad’s idiotic crimes aren’t big enough (yet) to really get them interested. So she’d gotten her stuff together and decided to do something about it.

Because Steph’s not stupid enough to try and reason with her father when he’s Cluemaster, she tries to get the Bat interested. She leaves clues, she makes the trial _so_ obvious, and nothing really happens. The only thing she gets out of this whole endeavor is the thrill of getting so close to the vigilantes and the chance to learn and practice some fun new things.

Then there was the incident yesterday. She’s not a hundred percent sure of _what_ happened, but either way, she’d gotten caught in the act and _almost_ ended up in real trouble. Of course, she didn’t. But still. And then there’s the kid himself. She’d thought it was Robin—it’d sounded like the kid and she’s pretty sure he’d moved the same, but the costume had been wrong. So she’s a little on edge.

Tonight, she knows that her dad’s planning something big, and she’ll be damned if she just lets this happen to her family again. Steph’s not sure _what_ she’s gonna do, but she’s gotta try. So she’d grabbed everything that might be remotely helpful and she’s just hoping it’ll come to her as she goes.

Her dad’s inside and there’s guns and oh God, she hasn’t planned this out. But it won’t stop her. And so she takes a few deep breaths and starts to move towards the door.

“Hey, stop!”

It’s the kid again, and she curses a little and bolts towards the door, because there’s no way in hell he’s gonna mess up her plans. She can hear him close behind her and she’s almost at the door when he says her name.

“They’ve got _guns,_ Stephanie,” he hisses and manages to snag her cape when she hesitates.

She’s not stupid enough to just stop, because who the hell knows who this boy is and anyway, she’s read enough to know you _never_ acknowledge your secret identity. So instead, she jumps backwards, on top of the boy, sending them both down.

Steph regrets it as soon as she’s done it, but there’s nothing else she could think of and anyway, she’s got some weight on the kid, enough to make him land hard. He hasn’t let go of the cape though, and since it’s unfortunately (for her) attached to the hood and mask she’s wearing, when he pulls, trying to gain leverage, it just comes right off her head.

“Get off me!” She snaps, rolling over so she can at least see what’s happening.

The kid doesn’t look like he’s particularly interested in doing that though, and he moves like he’s going to try and pin her down. Steph reacts, pure instinct taking over and giving her an idea. She grabs the first hard thing she can find on the ground, and slams the brick (she’s honestly a little surprised, she’d thought it’d be something a little less…damaging) right into the side of the boy’s head, _hard._ He goes down almost instantly, and for a split second, she’s sure she’s just totally killed him.

It takes a moment, but then the kid kind of moans and shifts, definitely _not dead._ And that’s a huge relief, but she also knows it’s a very bad idea to be on this roof when the kid comes to. Honestly, she’s kind of sorry that she’s gonna leave the boy laying here, but there’s no way she’s gonna go to jail _or_ wait to find out if it really is Robin and have a pissed off Batman to contend with.

But she hesitates, and that’s a terrible idea, because she heads the door rattling behind her and there’s nothing to do besides hide and hope that no one notices her. It’s not like her dad would actually _hurt_ a kid, right? And then Stephanie nearly laughs out loud, because she doubts that. He won’t kill the kid (she really hopes), but that’s not really a guarantee. So she ducks back and presses against a wall and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! I just got done moving states and getting settled in, so I apologize for the wait. Hopefully the long chapter makes up for it a little?


	18. What's the Worst that Could Happen?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler can improvise and Tim is an enabler.

Honestly, Tim isn’t sure if his head is actually hurt or if it’s the sheer shock of being hit with a freaking brick that keeps him down (probably the second—he’s been hit in the head plenty of times before). But it keeps him down long enough for the idiots inside to get up to the roof and drag his ass back downstairs and (try) to get him tied up and semi-upright on a chair. At this point, he’s seriously glad that he’s alone, because the whole thing is just embarrassing and there’s no way he’d live it down if anyone found out that some untrained girl _and_ bunch of B- and C-list goons had gotten the drop on him. As it stands now, he’s trying to figure out the best way to get out of this without any more bruises to show for it.

Inhaling slowly, he takes stock of the situation—there’s five men, counting the Cluemaster. They’ve got some absolutely ridiculous themed costumes going on too, which really doesn’t help his ego. They do have guns, so there’s that, but it looks like at least one of them isn’t loaded and basically this whole thing is a joke. Except for the part where the loaded guns _are_ pointed at his head, he’s tied up (even if it’s poorly), and his vision is still slightly blurred.

He’s so busy feeling indignant about the entire situation that it takes a few seconds to register that Cluemaster is actually doing some kind of monologue. He tunes in long enough to catch the phrase “my grand plan will not be hindered by a mere child”, and tunes back out to wonder if the guy’s on drugs or something. Actually, he’s getting a little secondhand embarrassment for the poor daughter, because she’d have to deal with this guy all the time…and be related to him (which is even worse).

And then, because he has basically no self-control when it comes to this sort of situation, he starts mouthing off.

“Did you get those costumes from a Halloween blow-out sale or did you have to order those special? They seriously look like those knock-off clown costumes.”

This gets him a very annoyed look from basically everyone, and (more importantly) it gets their leader to stop talking.

“I mean, I get that you’re trying to create a ‘look’ or whatever, but do you really want everyone to think generic brand Pennywise? Is that what you’re going for?”

“You’re the one dressed like a scarecrow,” the man finally sputters. “And really, it’s not a good idea to sass adults, you know. It’s rude.”

Tim blinks. “Yeah, that’s like, the most Dad-thing I’ve ever heard. Like, seriously. Fair point about the costume though. My normal one’s in the wash. You ever try to get bloodstains out of Kevlar? It’s not easy.”

One of the henchmen apparently catches on at this point. “Hey, um, Ar—uh, Cluemaster? Do we _really_ wanna piss of the Bat? I mean, we all know it’s not a good idea to fuck with his kid.”

“First off,” Cluemaster says, slowly. “Batman should be the least of your worries. And second, it’s not the same kid. You _really_ think that the Bat would let his brat run around with shitty equipment?”

“He’s right, you know. Batman’s _way_ more responsible than that!” Tim barely manages to keep a straight face.

Clearly, this isn’t a helpful comment, and now everyone’s attention is squarely on him again. Shifting a little and barely refraining from sighing, Tim goes back to ignoring the conversation (which seems to be mostly an argument over whether or not the Bat _would_ do that) and goes back to taking stock of the area. There’s plenty of space to hide or escape, and the same goes for potential weapons. He’s so focused on the possibilities that he almost misses Spoiler creeping along one of the boardwalks up above.

\---

Stephanie’s pretty much given up on self-preservation by this point. She also feels obligated to make sure that Robin (she’s like 98% sure he’s Robin) doesn’t actually get hurt. Actually, she’s not remotely sorry about the brick thing, but it _is_ her dad, so she’s responsible for making sure nothing (else) happens to the kid. So she slips in behind everyone else and creeps along the walkways, trying very hard to mimic the movements she’s seen the vigilantes make.

Of course, she shouldn’t have counted on Robin actually thinking about self-preservation. The kid basically goes less than five minutes before he starts mouthing off. Gritting her teeth, Stephanie barely refrains from yelling at him to just shut up. There are very few things that set her dad off faster than talking back and being a smart ass. And of course, these happen to be two of Robin’s biggest strengths, so this will not go well.

She’s edging along a boardwalk that really doesn’t deserve the name—it’s basically a plank of wood spanning this huge gap between two platforms—when Robin _finally_ stops talking. Of course, he’s already got everyone else all spun up, so it’s a little late now, but small blessings, right? Frowning, she stares down, trying to figure out _why_ he’s being quiet. As far as she can tell, he’s just looking around (there’s probably some official vigilante reason), totally unphased by the angry men around him. Steph shifts a little when he starts looking up, wondering if he’s spotted her. After a moment, they make eye contact. She waves cheerfully, deciding to just embrace this because she doesn’t appreciate the unimpressed expression on the boy’s face.

It takes him a minute, but he relaxes a little and raises his eyebrows slightly, like an invitation— _okay, what’re you gonna do then?_ Steph has no idea. She grins though, trying to convey confidence, like she totally has this. Moving carefully, she gets off the terrifying plank and onto the more stable platform.

By the time Steph gets onto solid ground, she kinda has a plan…she just needs to get Robin on board with it too. Waving until she’s sure that he’s looking, she mimes out what she’s planning. Steph’s not the greatest at charades, but he seems to understand. Feeling a little more confident, she pulls out her latest addition to Spoiler’s small arsenal—a Batarang she’d found in an alley awhile back—and throws it, praying that all her practice is going to pay off and she won’t accidentally hit her ally or miss entirely.

The projectile flies through the air and hits its mark, burying itself deep into the table they’d been using for their plans. The thud is satisfying and catches everyone’s attention. All of the men look up frantically, trying to spot the source. This is the hardest part of her plan though—convincing them that Batman is the one terrorizing them. Knowing that there’s no way to manage that if they see her fully, Steph has opted for not staying still and not moving into the full light. The shadows, she’s learned quickly, are your friend in the vigilante world.

Down below, chaos is reigning. All of the men are frantically searching for the Bat, cocking guns and arguing over whether or not they’ve seen something. Meanwhile, Robin has slipped out of the ropes and hopped out of the chair, disappearing into the shadows a lot easier than she did. Grinning, Steph uses the safety rail to swing and then flip across the gap and directly in front of the light, casting a nice, bat-shaped shadow. Her ploy is working though, and she’s ready to call this a success when the first gunshot cracks through the air. There’s rush of air as the bullet flies right by her head, barely missing.

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, diving for cover. “Shit, shit, shit!”

More gunfire stops this stream of thought, and she breathlessly focuses on getting somewhere where the bullets cannot penetrate. She’s not sure where Robin has disappeared to, but she’s a little pissed that he’s not helping more. But then the stream of bullets starts to slow, and she can breathe again. Scrambling to the edge, she peers down to see what’s happening.

Robin is taking the men out with brutal efficiency. He either knows something she doesn’t about guns, or he just doesn’t care. Regardless, he’s already gotten three of them disarmed and down for the count. Feeling a little useless, Steph makes her way down to the ground level. By the time she gets there, everyone has been disarmed and mostly restrained. The only person left is her father.

\---

Again, Tim’s glad there’s no one here to see what happens, because he can already imagine the lecture he’d get for actually letting Spoiler help him, not to mention getting her shot at. He’s not sure how to feel about that yet, but everything had gone pretty well and nobody got hurt who shouldn’t. He chooses not to dwell on it though and focuses on making sure everyone is nice and tied up better than he’d been. He can hear Spoiler climbing down, apparently none the worse for wear. She makes it down about the same time as he starts tying up the Cluemaster.

The whole situation is a little awkward, or at least he thinks it probably is—it’s not like he has any experience in this area—and he’s not sure what to do. So he kind of just…steps to the side, and lets her past. Then he pretends like he needs to check the knots on the other guys, just to give them a little space. He might not be as emotionally savvy as Dick, but even he can tell that they need some privacy.

He’s watching out of the corner of his eye though, and he spins around really quickly just as Stephanie full on punches her father in the face, hard enough to actually knock him down. Tim considers saying something, but judging by the expression on her face, he’s pretty sure he’d just end up on the ground too. Pretending he didn’t see anything, Tim just calls in and requests a pick up for the incapacitated men.

“Uh,” he’s not really certain if he should give her more time or something. “The cops are gonna be here in a little while. So we should probably…”

She nods and marches past him, heading up the stairs to the roof. Still at a loss, Tim follows behind. He’s like 90% sure that she’s crying, which is just as awkward because he really doesn’t know what to do about that. So he just walks a good two feet behind and doesn’t talk until they reach the roof.

When the flashing lights start approaching, Tim clears his throat. “We should, uh, we need to get off this roof. Unless you want to explain all this to the cops.” She doesn’t answer, so he kinda tugs on one of her arms. “C’mon. We need to get out of here.”

\---

They find a spot about a block down the street from the warehouse and watch as the police go to and fro, the lights flashing and reflecting off of broken glass. After a few minutes, Steph sighs and tugs off the hood and mask.

“I, um, thanks for the help. That was pretty good,” Robin says from next to her, not turning to look over. “Y’ didn’t actually get shot, right?”

She breathes out slowly. “No. My cape got ripped though. Sorry about, y’know…the brick thing.”

“Don’t worry about it. I mean, it didn’t hurt _that_ bad. I’ve had worse.”

The awkward silence stretches on for an almost painful amount of time. Finally, the boy shifts and sighs, flopping back so he’s laying down on the roof.

“Really wish you woulda aimed for somewhere less visible though. Not sure how I’m gonna hide this.”

“Sorry,” Steph frowns a little. “Where _is_ Batman anyway? ‘M pretty sure that you’re not supposed to be running around unsupervised. I mean, he kinda freaks out when you’re out of sight and it’s not planned.”

“And you would know this how?”

“Um, it’s not like it’s hard to find you guys, y’know.”

He snorts. “And they say _I’m_ the stalker. He’s out of town. I sorta snuck out. Hence the lack of…everything.”

“Oh. So…he’s like your dad, right?”

“Sorta. Um, I dunno. I guess? I mean, I live with him. My parents weren’t that…great.”

“Well, you just met one of mine,” Steph says, flopping down too. “So…yeah. I think Batman’s probably a good substitute. At least he doesn’t spend most of his time being a lying super-villain wannabe.”

“No, he just spends it running around in a bat-suit and punching people. And being disapproving.” Before she can respond, he snickers a little. “He is gonna _hate_ you, y’know.”

Steph frowns. “ _Why_? I mean, I’m on your team.”

“Yeah, without any training or equipment or oversight. You’re like everything he’s scared _I’ll_ be.”

“I see your point. But still.”

“The lack of equipment _is_ a problem though,” he muses. “Seriously. Kevlar is amazing shit, getting shot for real _sucks._ Also things like grapnel guns ‘nd, y’know, night vision capabilities and stuff.”

“Yeah…” Steph tries really hard not to sound annoyed. “That’d be great, but it’s kinda, I dunno, _expensive_.”

Frowning a little, he sits up suddenly. “True. But, I think we can work around it. I mean, it’d almost definitely end with at least one of us getting into trouble with the Bat, and also it will absolutely make him hate you. But…”

Steph sits up to match him. “Okay, shoot. I mean, I’m already screwed right? So what’s the worst that could happen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steph is definitely a challenging character to write. I mean, she's perky and funny and definitely a lot lighter than most of the Batfam, but she's also really resilient and super tough, which is something a lot of fics seem to miss. So hopefully I did her justice!
> 
> We're almost done, people! I'm planning on 25 chapters, so we're more than halfway there. Don't worry, this is only the sequel in a trilogy. The story isn't over yet! :D


	19. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick's happy that his brother's finally made a friend, but seriously, this can't end well.

“Can you please check on Tim for me?”

Dick mostly refrains from saying something sarcastic and, seeing as how this is the first time he’s actually heard from Bruce in months, it’s definitely a feat. “Why, exactly, would my thirteen year old brother who _lives with you_ need to be checked on?”

“Because,” Bruce sighs, like Dick’s just being totally unreasonable. “I’m out of town all week and it’s not fair to expect Alfred to take care of things _and_ keep track on your brother at the same time. And because I’m sure he misses you.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s no point in acknowledging the fact that Bruce is only “sure” instead of Tim having told him so. “And he couldn’t just come with you, because…?”

“Because it’s the middle of the school year, and because I’m not sure that international travel is a good idea for him.”

Dick can’t resist. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want him coming back missing any _other_ body parts, ammiright? Okay, I will ‘check on Tim for you’, because you’re right about Alfred.”

He hangs up before Bruce can respond, which is probably a very good thing. Then he flops onto the couch, groaning a little because he’s frustrated and also sore (Nightwing took a knife in the thigh last night). After a few moments, he opens the app and sends Tim a text, knowing there’s a fifty/fifty chance of getting a response.

_Coming over 2morrow. Want me 2 grab anything?_

Surprisingly, his phone goes off a few minutes later.

_French fries + Cheetos?_

Grinning a little, he agrees to do his best. He’s kind of curious about the Cheetos request, given that around ninety percent of the junk foods he’s had have come from either Dick or Jason. But, if nothing else, it should get him some kind of willing conversation not related to their nighttime activities out of Tim.

\---

Because he’s actually got a life and is also a horrible procrastinator sometimes, Dick doesn’t manage to arrive before well after midnight. Grimacing a little when he sees the time (one o’clock) he does his best to slip in unnoticed, relatively sure that everyone is (or should be) asleep. Turning to shut the door quietly, he nearly jumps when the lights suddenly come on. Spinning around, he gives Alfred a very sheepish grin.

“Hey…So, um, did Bruce mention that I was gonna stop by?”

“Of course,” Alfred replies drily. “In that he briefly discussed the concept with me. I am glad to see you though.”

“Likewise. Why’re you still up though? I mean, no one’s patrolling tonight, right?” Dick _really_ hopes he’s right.

Alfred manages to look both exasperated and vaguely amused as he motions for Dick to follow. “Officially, no. However—”

“How long ago did he leave,” Dick interjects. “And am I supposed to drag him back, or…?”

“Oh, around an hour ago. I highly doubt you’ll need to ‘drag’ him either, Master Dick. I am merely hoping you might be willing to go check on him…and remind him that the agreement he and I reached was that he would be home by one a.m..”

Dick blinks. “’Agreement’? How—”

“Oh, he has been sneaking out for months now, an activity which I have not encouraged. However, if he does insist upon doing so, it would be remiss of me to not provide proper support.”

“Lovely. Okay, I’ll go get him.”

\---

Steph isn’t sure what she’s gotten herself into, but there’s no point in asking questions like that now. At least she’s kind of found some help in the form of Robin, who’s either doing this because he wants to help or he thinks the whole thing is funny. Although she’s gotta admit, it probably _is_ funny watching her try to learn this shit. Ever since that lovely bonding experience two nights ago, he’s been bringing her a steady supply of actual gear and has tried to help her learn how to not die. “Try” being the optimal word.

“Okay, so I just swing this like a baseball bat, right?” Steph says, half-serious.

“Well,” Robin says slowly. “I mean, you could. But, um—”

She swings it and somehow ends up on the ground, baton-less.

“I’d just do that,” He finishes, almost laughing. “You sure you don’t wanna try a bo staff? It’d be more like a bat.”

“Yeah, and twice as heavy. We’ve already established that I’m a little low on muscle to use like half of this stuff. _Yet._ ”

“Good point.”

Groaning, Steph gets back up. “Is this supposed to actually _help_ me get better, or just to make me so sore that I give up? Because I swear, I will turn you over to Batman if you try it.”

“Paranoid much? ‘M pretty sure that’d be self-sabotaging anyway. I mean, he’d just tell your mom.” He shifts into a stance that apparently means “someone’s getting hit”. “Okay, let’s try that again. So remember, the whole idea is that you have _two_ batons. So only using one is stupid. Try doing that two-blow move again. Remember?”

“Yeah, that’s the one where I try to smash your face in and then hit you in the gut, right?”

“Um…I was thinking of something else, but sure. Try that.”

She moves into that stance too, managing to get the footing right (she knows because he hasn’t made her stop and fix it this time). Running through the mental list silently, she tries really hard to keep on the balls of her feet and shift her weight evenly. This is hard because at the same time, she’s supposed to be moving in a circle to keep her distance and watch her opponent.

Taking a slow breath, she moves forward, paying attention to the motions instead of speed— _"you have to do them right before you can do them fast”_ —and swings the first baton, hitting the bo staff hard enough to jolt her arm. Following up, Steph aims another blow at the boy’s stomach. She can already tell he’s going to block it, and suddenly, it occurs to her that his legs are going to be relatively exposed. So, improvising, she cracks the baton she’s already used against his right ankle. Surprisingly, it works and he actually takes a stumbling half-step backwards.

“Ow! Fuck!” Robin says, looking more surprised than anything. “That…that was good.”

“Really? ‘Cuz you’re acting like I just broke your ankle or something.” Steph feels a little worried that she _did,_ because what the fuck is she gonna do then?

“No, just really hit it good. Um, you do remember that we’re trying to not actually hurt each other, right?”

 Steph grimaces a little and offers a hand to help him up. “Yeah. But it worked! Don’t you guys have like padded sticks or something? I mean, you have training equipment, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Robin says, wincing a little when he puts weight on the injured ankle. “But he’ll notice if I take those. This stuff is all either mine or it belongs to…not Batman. Okay, I call break.”

He sort of flops down against the air duct they put all the extra stuff by. Reluctantly, she joins him.

“You want half of my Rice Crispy Treat? Mom made them this morning as a consolation prize for me having two tests in one day. High school sucks, by the way.”

“What’s in it?” He looks skeptically at the proffered snack. “And it does. Jus’ gimme a second and we can keep going. Um, I brought some protein bars. We, ah, don’t have snack food at home.”

Steph snorts. “I still say that’s awful. Like, I would die without sugar, okay? And it’s just marshmallow and Rice Crispies—that’s a kind of breakfast cereal. Gimme one of those bars. You could at least bring the chocolate chips ones, by the way. I mean, it’s not a huge improvement, but still.”

“I _know_ what Rice Crispies are.” Seeing the skeptical look on her face, he elaborates. “My brother is kinda a breakfast cereal addict. Like, half the time that’s all that’s in his apartment. Actually, you guys would probably get along pretty well.”

“Yeah, I thought it was a ‘bad idea’ for me to meet anyone else? Gotta admit though, I almost think you’re making like half your family up. Like, do these ‘brothers’ even exist? Are they a figment of your imagination, brought on by sleep deprivation and too many hits to the head? I may never get the truth!”

“Hey, you’re partially responsible for at least one of those things!” He tries to keep a straight face but can’t quite keep from chuckling over the dramatic expression on his companion’s face.

\---

Apparently, the “agreement” between Alfred and Tim included Alfred not having access to the boy’s mask feed, a fact which Dick finds both annoying (because it definitely doesn’t help him find the kid) and unfair (because he _never_ got that option as Robin). Thankfully, there are enough tracking sensors in the boy’s uniform and clothes to located him with basically pinpoint accuracy.

Dick’s not entirely sure if he should go out as Nightwing or not, since Tim’s only taken about two thirds of his uniform in favor of civvies. But since the kid definitely has the mask and tunic, Dick goes for the uniform. It looks like someone’s been messing with the stuff in his locker recently, but since Dick’s so rarely in the Cave these days, he chalks it up to faulty memory.

It doesn’t take too long to suit up and find a bike and in no time, he’s zipping through the streets into downtown Gotham. He has to ditch the ride almost ten blocks from the boy’s location, because the last thing he wants to do is possibly compromise his brother’s cover. Besides, Nightwing has always enjoyed going over the buildings more than anything.

He flips off of roofs, grappling from building to building, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness that always comes with it. When he’s two blocks away, he switches to stealthier movements, focusing on silence and concealment. Slowly, he approaches the building where Tim should be, half-expecting the place to be on fire or something equally dramatic. But instead, he’s surprised to find that not only is the building intact, but his brother is on the roof and very clearly not in any real trouble. He’s also not alone.

Nightwing is a little hesitant to just go over and interrupt…whatever it is the kid is doing. So he uses the binocular function on his mask to see what they’re up to. It’s clear that Tim isn’t in any immediate danger, aside from getting hit in the head by a blonde girl waving a baton around like a bat. After a few minutes, it becomes obvious that Tim’s trying to show her how to use the batons, without too much success. They start to spar and it’s pretty obvious that he’s just half-assing it, no doubt having come to the conclusion that the girl isn’t gonna get through. And then she gets in a good hit, ending the match. It’s taking a lot of will power for Dick not to laugh outright at the interaction. He can read lips well enough to know that it hurt, but it’s not debilitating. The kids apparently decide to call and head over to a pile of supplies to sit and have a snack or something similar.

It surprises him a little to see how at ease Tim is right now, sitting within arm’s reach of another person, no nervous tics or hunched shoulders. Hell, Dick’s like 90% sure that the kid just laughed, which is a feat in and of itself. It’s also something he’s totally going to tease Tim about later. Grinning, he aims his grapnel gun to the far side of the building, where the kids won’t see him—he’s counting on Tim not paying attention.

\---

Not that she’ll ever admit it, but Steph is totally keeping score on how many times she can distract her new friend into doing something that isn’t basically kicking her ass in the name of “experience”. So far, she’s up to twenty different times, although she’s kind of cheating by using pop culture references (kid is like a super nerd); she’s justified this by considering the fact that part of why she loses literally every sparring match is because he knows a ton more about this shit than she does.

And yet, when it comes to normal stuff, like junk food, or cartoons, or even just idioms that everyone knows, he’s totally clueless. Which is weird, but it’s not like she’s expecting a lot of normal from a kid who moonlights as a vigilante. Besides, this way she gets the fun of making him try new foods. Like right now, she’s never seen anyone so skeptical of a Rice Crispy Treat.

“I mean, they’re better fresh, but still.” Steph shrugs and stuffs the rest of her half into her mouth. “Whaddya think?”

He looks at his piece contemplatively. “’S really chewy.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the point.”

“Umm…”

Steph stares in disbelief. “Oh my god, are you gonna tell me you don’t like Rice Crispy Treats?!?”

“Uh-huh.” He grimaces a little. “You want the rest?”

Suddenly, a voice comes from somewhere to her right. “Oh, my god. Seriously, I cannot believe we’re related. I mean, how could you?!?”

Both of them jump and turn to look at the man who seems to have just materialized there. And then Robin groans and throws the Treat at him.

“Seriously? You are such an ass!”

The man catches the snack easily, looking very pleased with himself. He gives Stephanie a grin. “I am honestly very embarrassed to be related to him right now.”

“Um,” Steph says, trying hard to remember the name that goes with the uniform. “It’s…Nightwing, right?”

“Yup!” The vigilante moves to sit next to Robin, jokingly pushing the boy’s shoulder so he almost overbalances. “My brother sucks at making introductions, I know. You are?”

“Uh, Stephanie. Steph.”

Nightwing nods and takes a bite of the Treat. “Mmm. Nice t’ meet you. So, uh, how did you two meet?”

“She hit me with a brick,” Robin volunteers.

“Hey!” Steph protests. “I also saved his life.”

“…Okay, I’m just gonna pretend that all makes sense. Which leads to the follow up—what the heck are you two doin’ out here?”

“He’s helping me learn how to fight. Apparently by kicking my ass over and over, but still.”

Humming in acknowledgement, he turns and gives Robin a Look.

The boy sighs. “She’s Spoiler. ‘Nd she wasn’t gonna just go home, y’know. Figured she might as well have _some_ training. ‘Sides, _you’re_ the one who keeps sayin’ I need t’ make friends. She’s not too bad with the batons either.”

Steph can’t keep from grinning, because _Robin just said they were friends_. And he just sort of complimented her. So…overall this night has been a success.

“Well, it has been wonderful meeting you, Steph. But I was sent to get Robin here home. Past his bedtime and all that.” Nightwing does actually look a little sorry. “So, uh…”

Robin groans, but starts getting up. “’Kay. You good getting home?”

“Yeah,” Steph mumbles, pushing herself up. “’M good. See ya tomorrow?”

He grins and nods. “Yeah.”

\---

Dick manages to make it a whole two blocks before he can’t resist.

“So…Stephanie.”

“Shut up,” Tim replies tersely. “Seriously.”

“Aw, c’mon! Don’t be that way, little brother. I’m just curious.”

“No, you’re an asshole.”

Grinning, Dick doesn’t argue that point. “Uh-huh. She’s cute.”

“Shut. Up.”

“And she’s got pretty good tastes in snacks.”

Tim groans.

“And she totally got you in that last round.”

“Please stop.”

\---

By the time they make it home, Dick’s like 80% sure his brother is going to kill him in his sleep. It’s totally worth it, of course. But still.

Honestly, he’s got mixed feelings about the whole thing. He just knows Bruce is gonna flip over this, and he’s not sure how that’ll go. But he also knows the look in Tim’s eye and it means there’s no stopping him from doing this. And Steph has the same look. To Dick, this is basically watching a train wreck in motion.

But he already knows he’s going to help. Because screw Bruce, if it makes his brother happy and keeps that girl from getting herself killed, there’s no way he’s gonna sit it out.


	20. Missing Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is surprised at just how much he's missed out on.

Batman is the World’s Greatest Detective, and apparently, he’s so good at it that he’s managed to miss the incredibly obvious changes happening in his own home. After Ethiopia— _after Jason_ —Bruce has managed to make up plenty of reasons to _not_ be in the Manor: the penthouse was closer to work, he had meetings that couldn’t be missed, the safehouses needed to be restocked, he needed to be somewhere else. But there’d been other things that he’d ended up avoiding too, not intentionally, but obliviously.

It wasn’t like he _never_ was in the Manor, it’s just that it was always him passing through, on his way to other events, other activities. And he’d just…missed it. Even with Dick and Alfred almost berating him at times, trying to break through the mental walls Bruce has put up to avoid memories.

And it’s not like he was trying to avoid Tim. It was just that, well, their lives didn’t intersect very much aside from at night, but even then, that was Batman and Robin, not Bruce and Tim. When they did interact, he’d been oblivious enough to click right back into being a parent without thinking about it (the fact that he wasn’t always being a parent).

It had taken him nearly dying to realize this. He’d been reckless, hadn’t paid attention and had gotten shot twice and then still been inside the burning building when it went down. From what he’s been told, Robin had managed to dig him part way out and then realized there was no way he could pull Batman out from under concrete slabs. He’d called Superman, much to Bruce’s chagrin after he’d woken up hours later.

Alfred had ordered him on bedrest, with strict orders to remain within the Manor. He’d actually banned Bruce from working on any cases or WE paperwork for at least a week. This left him sitting around with nothing to do until he remembered that Tim was home “sick” and decided to try and connect with the boy.

It’d taken him a while to figure out where his son was, but he finally found Tim in the kitchen, assembling some sort of sandwich. He had gotten taller, Bruce is surprised to see—not quite as tall as Jason or even Dick had been at that age, but definitely a few inches taller than before. He can reach the cabinets without having to climb onto the counter now, which Bruce is sure his son has had no problem exploiting this to its fullest potential.

Tim glances at him curiously. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“…Okay… Um, want one?”

Nodding, Bruce takes a seat at the kitchen island. He sits quietly, unsure of what to do now that he has actually found Tim. For his part, Tim is silent as he carefully puts together two peanut butter-jelly sandwiches. He takes a huge bite of one and hands Bruce the other.

“Thanks. Where’s Alfred?”

“Um,” Tim gulps down his mouthful of sandwich. “He’s working on sealing the windows today. Says that he’s tired of the draft coming through.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I did offer to help.”

Bruce smiles a little at that. “He doesn’t like any of us helping when it comes to home repairs. Not sure why.”

“Yeah…”

They sit in silence after this, with Tim doing something on his phone and Bruce looking contemplatively at the sandwich in his hand. It’s slightly mashed looking but he feels obliged to eat the entire thing, especially since Tim’s already finished eating his.

“Have you never had a pb&j or something?”

“Hmmm?”

Tim gestures at the sandwich. “It’s not poisoned. You’re staring at it like it’s gonna blow up or something.”

“Oh,” Bruce grins a little ruefully and sets it down. “It’s a little sweet for my tastes. Sorry.”

“Cool.” Tim reaches over and grabs it, biting into it absently, attention already shifting back to the phone.

He doesn’t seem at all bothered by Bruce’s presence, although he does glance up once or twice to give Bruce a curious look. But other than that, he doesn’t even acknowledge the man sitting across from him. Ironically, this is the most relaxed the boy has been around Bruce in…well, in over a year.

Bruce is fine with the silence, especially since it’s probably the first time in months that he’s actually spent any time around his son in a purely domestic setting. And he’s surprised (and pleased) to see that boy seems…not happy exactly, but less withdrawn and more confident. There’s no fidgeting or picking, no stuttering, and, if Bruce is being totally honest, no flinching and hunched shoulders. It’s the closest Tim has been to “normal”, or at least the Tim-version of normal in a long time.

Ethiopia had changed a lot of things, had _destroyed_ just as many. Tim’s trust had been one such casualty. After the Court, Tim had made a lot of progress, had seemed to really begin to feel at home, to feel safe. He’d begun to work through some of the trauma and had seemed to be truly healing in a way that Bruce had honestly feared might never happen. But then, after everything had happened with the Joker and then Jason, it had been like all the progress had been erased and suddenly they were dealing a half-feral Talon again, albeit a slightly less hostile one.

The only real progress they’d made since then had been in letting Tim become Robin, but it had been a half-measure. In anything dealing with Batman and Robin, he was confident and willing to argue and be defiant with everyone. But outside of that, there hadn’t been much change that Bruce had seen. Of course, Bruce is the first to admit that he hasn’t paid attention as he should have and he’s missed out on seeing his son grow. He’s just surprised at _how much_ he’s missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter, I know. But I'm tired and it was a cute scene (to me, at least). I finally finished the move and unpacked everything. And I've got a new job that I love! So yeah, things are different around here and I can't guarantee any updates in the next month. Just know that I AM going to finish this one day. Thanks for sticking with me!


	21. Build it up...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce learns a lot all at once.

Stephanie’s honestly not sure how she’s managed to go this long without Batman finding out about her, but it’s happened and now she’s just wondering if his “no-kill rule” (so-called by both Robin and Nightwing in a very sardonic tone every time) is going to hold. Because right now, he seriously looks ready to kill her. It’s really not how she’d hoped the night would go.

Things had started out nicely enough—she’d been looking forward to going out that night so much that she’d almost blown her cover in her enthusiastic exit through the bedroom window. Over the past month, she’s gotten to actually _use_ her new skills on people besides her friend and, occasionally, his brother. They’d been working their way up from basic stuff like muggings and cats stuck in trees (seriously?!?) to more interesting things like drug deals and (once, by total accident) big name villains.

She’d been pushing for this since the beginning, but Robin had drily pointed out that that hadn’t ended so well last time. It’d been a good point and she’d relented. Steph is never gonna admit it, but that was definitely a good call.

But tonight had been an easy sort of night, at least at first. They’d basically just been messing around, not really looking for any trouble. Of course, as soon as they _found_ some, they’d both knock it off. It’d been getting close to one, which she’s gathered is her friend’s curfew (which isn’t enforced half the time), and they’d started to head back when they’d heard the sound of glass shattering and an alarm going off.

At first there wasn’t any problem—it was a run-of-the-mill robbery: a couple of men with ski masks, some crowbars and bricks, and no imagination. It had turned out that one of them also had a gun, which she’d learned about when it went off. The bullet hadn’t hit anyone, but the whole situation changed and suddenly there was a real threat.

The gun went off several times before she got a lucky throw in and hit him in the arm with a brick, knocking the gun from his grip. Robin follows it up by bashing the guy in the head with his bo staff.  The man dropped and, just like that, the entire the altercation had ended. And that’s when they’d both notice the smell of something burning.

One of the bullets must have hit something and caused a fire that was quickly growing in intensity and size. The two men still conscious took this moment to run for it, while both young vigilantes scrambled to put the fire out. It hadn’t worked.

She’d gone to evacuate the apartment next door, while Robin took the ones directly above the shop. He hadn’t gotten out by the time Steph had finished and she’d gone to help. That was a stupid move, and it had ended with both of them nearly getting trapped. The only reason they hadn’t been was because Batman had showed up and gotten them out.

And now they’re all on a roof nearly twenty blocks away from the now smoldering building and strobing lights of the fire engines. Batman is furious, she can tell that right away—she’s gotten good at reading adults over the years—but he keeps silent until both she and Robin have caught their breaths and can confirm that, no, they aren’t hurt (she’s only lying a little, but she’s pretty sure her friend is too) before finally addressing the situation.

“What. Happened?”

Robin purses his lips. “Um…there was a burglary. The altercation started a fire, so we—”

“Who is this?” The look he’s giving Steph makes her want to disappear. It also makes her angry.

“I’m Spoiler,” Steph interjects, not willing to be bullied by yet another belligerent man. “And I can speak for myself, thanks.”

“’Spoiler’? Young lady, you are _not_ some sort of superhero, and you are _definitely_ not equipped to be out here. Look at what happened—”

“Hey! I didn’t _start_ that fire, okay? And I know how to handle myself, thanks.”

“She’s just trying to help, B,” Robin says quietly. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

Batman turns that same look on Robin, which doesn’t do much. The boy straightens up a little, crossing his arms defiantly. He shifts just a little, so he’s now shoulder-to-shoulder with Steph, which she’s going to take as a gesture of solidarity.

“No, she’s trying to get herself killed and you’re just assisting her.” The man takes a deep breath before speaking in a barely calmer tone. “I’m calling the Batmobile. You are going to return to the Cave and wait there. Do you understand me?”

“Bu—”

“ _Do you understand?”_

“Fine.”

Batman nods, satisfied. “Good.”

\---

The boy is waiting when Bruce finally gets back, arms crossed over his chest. Bruce takes a deep breath before he starts making his way up towards the computer. He’s contemplating whether or not he should even attempt a conversation with Tim right now—the boy is already defensive and, honestly? Bruce is tired and doesn’t want to deal with this after having a “conversation” with the girl already.

He’d barely gotten Tim to leave before she’d been in his face, alternating between yelling at him for being an asshole and demanding that he let her continue vigilantism. Every time he’d tried interrupting, she’d just raise her voice. It was a tirade that the man hadn’t really expected, and it reminded him more than a little of Jason’s tendency to react explosively. In the end, he’d sent her home, following the whole way to make sure she actually did as he’d commanded and to learn who she was (he already knows that Tim isn’t going to tell him anything easily). He’d confiscated all of her gear…and had quickly recognized most of it as spare equipment from the Cave.

That alone is enough to make his blood boil—not only is it obvious that Tim has been going behind his back for months, and Bruce is willing to bet that the boy’s had help; Dick, if he has to guess. He imagines that Alfred also has a hand in it.

“Well?” Tim demands, startling him out of this line of thought.

 _Of course this can’t just be easy._ Bruce takes a slow, deep breath.

“This is unacceptable. _What_ were you thinking?”

“She’s a good fighter.”

“That’s not the point! You know that’s not the point. How irresponsible…you both could have died, do you realize that?”

“You can die crossing the street too, but you let me do that!” Tim snaps back. “That’s _why_ I helped her. It was that or she’d just go out anyway. _That_ would be irresponsible!”

Bruce opens his mouth to reply but gets cut off.

“She’s smart and she’s not going to stop just ‘cuz you say so. And I’m not going to stop helping her, so don’t bother!” Tim, chest heaving, fists now clenched at his sides, stops and waits. Then, very softly. “’Nd she’s my friend.”

And Bruce doesn’t know what to do with that. But finally, _finally,_ he sputters out “Go to bed, Tim. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

But that doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work.

“Oh, so you’re actually gonna _be here_ in the morning?”

“That’s not—” Bruce tries to come up with something, anything that’ll make his son understand what he _means,_ but…

“You told me to make friends, so I fucking did! Okay? I’ve been _trying._ I’m trying! All I’ve done is try, but you—” He scoffs. “You _left._ You lied, and you lied and you left! And then you show up and, what, am I supposed to just sit here on pause and then act like nothing happened? I’m supposed to just wait and wait and not mind?”

It hurts, but it’s true. And Bruce realizes that the boy isn’t just yelling at him, he’s yelling at everyone who’s left him behind, waiting. But they aren’t here, it’s only Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t know what to say.

Tim isn’t finished though. “I’m still here, you know. Jason left. Dick left. And you keep acting like that’s _everyone._ But I didn’t leave. And you only ever remember that when you’re telling me off. So, you know what, you don’t get to tell me who I hang out with or what to I can do! Okay? And if you try to stop me, try to take all _this_ ,” he gestures wildly at the large space around them, “away from me; then I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing. I’m not waiting for anyone anymore, not even you.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just walks away while Bruce is still trying to come up with something. But “I’m sorry” doesn’t come out fast enough, it never does.

\---

Bruce makes sure that he’s awake long before Tim is, hoping that he can repair some of the damage from last night, at the very least he needs to apologize. Of course, Alfred is already up when he comes downstairs, baking something in the kitchen. He lets Bruce get a cup of coffee and take a seat before saying anything.

“I take it that last night didn’t go well,” the older man asks drily.

“No,” Bruce sighs, staring hard at his drink. “It did not. I just, I _do not_ know what to do with him, Alfred. I mean, one second it’s like everything’s fine and nothing seems to be wrong. Then the next, he’s defiant and angry at me. It’s like…like…I don’t even know. I don’t remember the other two being like this. I mean sure, sure Dick and I fought. And Jason…”

“Hmm, a grieving child lashing out, I can’t imagine how hard it must be to try and raise one.”

“Okay, I get the point. But, I wasn’t that bad, right?”

Alfred turns to give him a very skeptical look. “You got expelled from school how many times during your teenage years? And let’s not forget all those fights. Or the times you decided to run away only to show up hungry and resentful a day later.”

“Point taken. But seriously, the other two—”

“Everyone grieves in their own way, Master Bruce. And you know that.”

“Yeah,” the younger man mutters. “I just, I don’t know how to reach him without causing any _more_ damage.”

“Timothy is _not_ Jason,” Alfred says, cutting to the point, forcing Bruce to actually get to the reason he’s so scared of parenting his youngest child.

Bruce doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I…I know that. It’s just…I messed up so badly with Jason, and then…”

He trails off, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching. A few moments later, Tim comes in with a bedhead and tired expression that morphs into wariness when he sees Bruce sitting there. Wordlessly, he accepts the plate Alfred holds out to him before taking a seat across from Bruce. He starts poking at the food, glancing up occasionally.

After a several minutes, Bruce clears his throat. “Tim, I wanted to speak with you, about what happened last night.”

“Fine.” He doesn’t look up.

“Look, what I said—about, um, about the girl—”

“Steph.”

“Huh?”

“That’s her name. Stephanie. You already _know_ that though.”

“Okay, Stephanie.” Bruce is willing to acknowledge that he spent the better part of the night finding everything there was to know about “Spoiler”. “What I said, that this can’t go on? I meant it.”

Tim opens his mouth to protest, so Bruce hastily elaborates.

“I’m fully aware that you won’t stop, neither of you. But I’m not going to let the two of you go running around Gotham unsupervised. Okay? So, starting this weekend, you will _both_ be training in the Cave until _I_ say you’re ready to go out.”

Now Tim is looking at him, making eye contact, face skeptical.

“So,” Bruce continues, forcing himself to keep going. “I also owe you an apology. You were right last night. And I’m…sorry. For not being here. I mean—it’s, I, uh…”

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Tim comments during the awkward pause. “Seriously. It’s _that_ hard to be wrong, huh?”

Bruce sighs and rubs his forehead. “Tim—”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

\---

 _The words had just spilled out, tumbling over each other before they could be bit back, be stopped, compartmentalized for later. It’s not fair, it’s_ not _fair,_ it’s not fair!

_And he’s tired. So, so tired. Tired of being quiet, of being alone. He’s found ways to survive no matter what happens, his whole life has been like a weed forcing roots through cracks in concrete. He has things that keep him going, always, since he was little. Things…and now, people. But people leave and he stays and it goes on and on._

_He’s angry and hurt and_ wanting. _Wanting so much. He wants his parents, a parent, any parent to stop and stay and hold him. He wants to feel the warmth of home, of belonging. He wants to not be lonely. He wants._

 _When the words stop, the wanting doesn’t, but now there’s fear. Because he’s not supposed to say these things out loud to anyone. No one wants to hear them, not even him, but he can’t just stop or go back. Can’t take the words back. Can’t go back to silent rooms and an empty home, to nights running from loneliness that can’t be escaped. He_ won’t _go back._

 _But in the morning, after everything spilled out and he’s had so much time—21,600 seconds—to think about why he shouldn’t have said those things, Bruce is still there. Offering an olive branch, trying to make_ him _feel better. Apologizing instead of ignoring and that’s something. No one has ever, ever actually listened to what he was saying, what he was meaning. And it might not be a big deal, might be pathetic to anyone else, that incredibly slow, reluctant apology. But it’s huge to him._

\---

It’s been two months since Bruce had decided to start training Stephanie, and he’s still vacillating between “this girl does have potential” and “this was a terrible mistake”. The good news is that, as far as he can tell, Tim hasn’t been sneaking out at night on a regular basis. He could do without the constant questions and sarcasm, but overall it hasn’t been too bad.

Of course, the first time he’d come home to find her in the living room arguing with Tim about a homework assignment, he’d been surprised and a little annoyed. But he’d known it was only a matter of time before she learned about who they were, so he’d moved past it quickly enough (the fact that he knows there’s no way the girl can actually do any real harm helped) and found that it was sort of nice to have loud kids in the house again.

Honestly, the best thing to come out of this is that things have definitely improved with Tim. Bruce really doesn’t understand entirely _how_ things have gotten better—his apology had been truly pathetic by most standards. But it seems to have worked. Tim seems more willing to actively engage without shutting down emotionally and he’s actually sought Bruce out for comfort a couple of times, though not in an overly obvious way. He’s not naïve enough to think that things with Tim are completely fine now, but it’s certainly better than it was. He can only hope that their relationship will continue to improve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be a doozy :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is the sequel. It'll cover ground from Death in the Family to shortly before Damian shows up (can't remember any specific titles), and I'm HOPING that I can fit Cass in there. She's not in the tags yet, since I'm not certain where it will go. There will be a third, final fic after this, so stay tuned!


End file.
